Caffrey Conversation
by penna.nomen
Summary: Summary: Pre-series, Peter goes undercover to thwart a museum theft in St. Louis and gets unexpected help from Neal. Peter tries to recruit Neal. Neal is sick and loopy on cold medicine. Warnings: References to alcoholism & child abuse occurring before this story. Someone questions if Neal is suicidal; he isn't. Spoilers through the middle of season 4.
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue: James Bonds**

**Burke residence. Thursday night. September, 2003. 2 years before Peter arrested Neal. **

"James Bonds?" Elizabeth read over her husband's shoulder as she handed him a beer. "That's quite a name. Does he live up to it?"

Peter Burke muted the baseball game as his wife sat beside him on their living room sofa. He flipped back a few pages in the FBI case file to find a black-and-white photo of a dark-haired man in a suit. "We picked that name because he's a bond forger. At the time we didn't know his real name, or what he looked like."

"But obviously that's changed," Elizabeth said. "Is this a recent photo?"

"About 4 months old. Why?"

"Well, he just looks awfully young to have such a thick file." She turned a few pages, reaching a bond certificate. "You've brought this file home, before."

"Yeah, about a year ago, when we got word of forged bond certificates being cashed. The bonds were supposedly forgery-proof. Then he went quiet. He popped up on our radar again about 5 months ago, with a series of cons, frauds, thefts, and forgeries."

"A renaissance criminal."

"He'd probably enjoy being called that," Peter said. "He seems to have a fondness for renaissance art. At least, that's what I'm gathering from the latest Interpol reports. He's been in Europe recently."

"If he's outside of your jurisdiction, why are you studying his file?"

"He'll be back. Neal Caffrey – we're pretty sure that's his real name – treats New York as his home base."

"Then you'll catch him," Elizabeth said matter-of-factly. When Peter sighed in response, she closed the case file and tossed it on the coffee table. "All right, clearly something about this _Neal_ is getting to you. What is it?"

"This guy's smart. He's suspected of an impressive number of crimes but doesn't leave much in the way of evidence. It's not just a matter of catching him, El. We have to gather enough evidence to convict him. He's so charming that a jury will love him, making it vital to have overwhelming, irrefutable evidence. Even then, he'll probably get a light sentence. And you're right, he's young. He'll get out again soon and be back to his old tricks in no time."

Elizabeth stared at her husband a moment, and took him by surprise with her next question. "How do you know he's charming?"

"I've spoken to him, twice now. First was outside a bank; I had no idea who he was at the time, just thought he was a random citizen curious to meet an FBI agent. Then about a month ago he called my cell phone while I was on a stakeout. It should have been annoying. Hell, it is annoying, but for the wrong reasons. It seems like such a waste. With his intelligence, his talents, all of that potential... Why is he wasting his life on crime and eventual prison time?"

"Why don't you ask him? You know, the next time he calls. Have a conversation; find out what's motivating him."

"And what, reform him?"

"Well, not in a single phone call, no. But try to find out what it would take to convince him to change his ways. Offer him an alternative. You could use his talents, right?"

Peter put his beer down on the table. "You think I could convince this Caffrey kid to give up the international high life to be a CI? You think I could convince the FBI to trust him if he agreed to work with us?"

"Start small. Plant the idea that someone seriously believes he can be something other than a criminal. Maybe, someday, it will make a difference."

"Or maybe he would counter with an explanation of why he thinks crime is his best option. Which could give me the key to turning him around." Peter smiled. "That would be quite the conversation."

**Chapter 1: Meet Me in St. Louis**

**New York City. Tuesday morning. Early December, 2003. **

"You're still here?!"

Neal Caffrey stretched and took in his surroundings. The view that assaulted his blue eyes was nothing like the first class accommodations he'd grown used to on his recent trips to Europe. Lumpy futon. Was there really such a thing as a comfortable futon, or was that just a myth? Interior of a warehouse. Not a loft conversion, but an actual warehouse that just happened to have furniture in it. And sunlight streaming through the windows. No wonder Mozzie sounded freaked. He did not like for guests to stay overnight in his safe house. "Sorry. I just closed my eyes for a minute when you left to meet with Megan."

"Yeah, well that would have been 337 minutes ago. You said you were going to call Kate and then go."

A call that had gone unanswered. He'd tried calling a dozen times from Copenhagen, and she kept ignoring him. The plan had been to call one more time, and then to start searching some of her favorite haunts. Neal was surprised that he'd fallen asleep instead. There had been plenty of time to rest on the flight back from Europe yesterday, and he'd never suffered from jet lag. "I guess I forgot the second half. I'll get out of your way." He ran a hand through his black hair to look less like he'd just woken up.

"Actually, I'm going to take your presence as an omen that I was right to take Megan up on the opportunity she presented. It means I'll need to subcontract my prior engagement." Mozzie opened a hidden compartment in the sleek table he used for dining and scheming. He pulled out building plans and a plane ticket. "You like the work of Louis Comfort Tiffany; you'll be perfect for this."

That comment distracted Neal from the mystery of his unexpected nap. "Vintage Tiffany stained glass pieces are amazing, but difficult to hide, and too fragile to transport easily. The jewelry would be easier to take, but tricky to fence."

"They have a buyer lined up already."

"They?"

"A crew based in Chicago. There's a client here in New York who wants 3 specific pieces from the Met's collection. Those pieces are currently on tour."

That explained the plane ticket. "I get it. Art is usually most vulnerable in transit, or sitting in a museum's storerooms waiting to be put on display. It's easier to bring back to New York than to steal it here. So I'm going to Chicago?" Neal wouldn't mind visiting Chicago again. He had fond memories of hanging out there, visiting their museums and perfecting his skills at forging IDs after he'd run away from home.

"My contact works throughout the Midwest. The museum they're hitting is in St. Louis. The crew includes a glass artist who created replacements for the pieces the buyer wants, and his job will be to pack up the originals so they don't get damaged. They also have a specialist to disable the security."

_St. Louis._ He supposed he should think of it as home, but to Neal it represented a network of lies he had escaped at 18. Going back was not something he'd considered. But this sounded like the perfect way to go back. To show them, figuratively speaking, what he'd become. "What's my part?"

"They need someone inside to help the artist pack and carry the goods. It has to be someone smart, in case there are complications, because the artist is new to the trade. Just graduated from reproductions to replacements, if you get my drift. And then you'll bring the pieces back to New York." Mozzie placed a brochure for the exhibit on the table and pointed out 2 vases and a lamp. "These are the items the client wants."

"I admire his taste, but these are bulky. I can't bring them back as carry-on baggage."

"That's why you have a one-way ticket. You'll take a commercial flight to Chicago tomorrow morning. There you'll get on a private plane. And you'll take that same plane back here. A pity you can't fly it yourself. Having a pilot involved increases exposure and reduces our cut, but Roland has a guy he trusts."

Neal's eyes widened in surprise. He'd heard stories about Roland, but never thought Mozzie would introduce him. "Roland? Isn't he the guy you referred to as your arch rival?"

Mozzie shrugged. "Anyone who's any good in this business is my arch rival at some juncture. The point is, he's good at this. He'll get everyone in place at the right time, with everything they need. If all goes well, he's just the wheelman. If there are problems, well, he handles it."

_He handles it._ Neal could have said the same of Mozzie, or Keller. They were the people you wanted around when there were problems. Resourceful, experienced, clever - exactly the kind of people an up-and-coming criminal should study, to stay on top of the game. "I look forward to meeting him."

"Good, because I already told him you were onboard. Let's take a look at the museum plans."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

"You wanted to see me?" Peter Burke asked.

"Yes. Have a seat." Reese Hughes gestured to the chairs on the opposite side of his desk. "I know I said this last night, but I'll say it again: Good work with the Townsend case. We couldn't have arrested him if you hadn't figured out how he was spending the money he embezzled."

"Commissioning art thefts. We found the artwork in his home when we served the warrant last night. Last I heard he was making a deal to implicate several people who arranged or committed the thefts." Peter had been sent home at midnight, just as the interrogation was turning into a negotiation for that deal. One minute he'd taken a break to grab some coffee while waiting for Philip Townsend's attorney to arrive, and the next thing Peter knew he was being told to go home.

"That's why we're keeping his arrest quiet for now. We have agents bringing in many of the people Townsend named." Hughes smirked. "I know you weren't happy about being sent home."

Not happy? How about: annoyed as hell. "I never said that." At least, not until he was in his kitchen, telling El about his day.

"No, you're too smart to say it. But if you're half the agent I think you are, you're annoyed as hell and want to know why I shut you out." Hughes waited for Peter to nod. "I was watching the interrogation with Agent Wiese when she made an interesting comment, that you and Townsend have a lot in common. Both into sports, both of you studied accounting. You even have a similar build and coloring. Wiese said you did a good job of getting into his head, thinking like he did. She thought that contributed to catching him so quickly."

Peter turned this around in his mind. Wiese had a point, but he didn't want to get a reputation for arresting only tall, brown-haired, brown-eyed clones of himself. "I've caught plenty of criminals I had nothing in common with."

"True," Hughes agreed, "But it gave me an idea, and I wanted you to be awake and alert when I suggested it."

Awake, alert, and driven to prove himself, Peter thought. And Hughes didn't make suggestions. He gave orders. "You want me to go undercover as Townsend."

"The last theft he commissioned hasn't happened yet."

"That's what we'd learned right before you… Before I left," Peter said. He'd hated missing out on questioning Townsend about the details of his latest commission. But he had to admit Hughes had a point. He was thinking more clearly this morning. Last night he was just hoping to get a name from Townsend, but actually catching the thief in the act of delivering stolen goods would be much better.

"It's going down tomorrow, in St. Louis. He gave us a name of the person leading the crew, a Roland Villiers. Villiers has been on our Chicago office's radar for a while now. He hasn't met Townsend. Everything was arranged through an intermediary. But it seems there was a delay, some issue with forgeries that were supposed to be used in Detroit but got damaged en route, making this the second attempt. Townsend was impatient, said if he had to pay the same price for a late delivery he deserved something more. There wasn't time to forge more pieces, but when Villiers offered the chance to participate, Townsend agreed. He was going to travel to St. Louis Wednesday morning. You're going in his place."

Peter was interested, but had to ask the obvious question. "Why not send someone from the Chicago office?"

"They've pulled Villiers in for questioning half a dozen times in the last few years. As a result he'd recognize a lot of our agents. And if Villiers is smart, he's asked the intermediary what Townsend looks like." Hughes leaned back in his chair. "On paper, it's simple. We'll give you all the information we have from Townsend. Exactly what he commissioned and what he knows about the plans. You go to Chicago tonight for further briefing, then meet Villiers and his crew tomorrow. We'll have a wire on you. You'll be able to identify the members of the crew. If we're lucky, we'll get enough details of their plans to show up at the right time to arrest them with either the real or forged artwork in their possession."

"But that's on paper," Peter said. "In reality Villiers probably plans to keep Townsend as far as possible from the real action, while convincing Townsend that he's still involved enough to keep him happy and quiet."

"Right. And if you can manage your way through that obstacle course, when you get back to New York we'll talk about another suggestion I have in mind, to start up a White Collar task force."


	2. Chapter 2 - Wake Up Call

A/N: Spoilers for season 4.

**Chapter 2: Wake Up Call**

**Wednesday. Early December, 2003.**

Steve Tabernacle flew coach. Neal Caffrey should have been able to talk the ticket agent into an upgrade for his latest alter ego, but he was too tired to give it his best effort. He knew he was going to sleep through the flight, anyway. Why bother with first class if you're not awake to enjoy it?

Right before he boarded the flight he took the recommended dosage of an 8-hour cold medicine. Fortunately he didn't get sick often. Unfortunately, that meant he didn't have a lot of experience with cold meds or his reactions to them. Yesterday, when the sneezing and coughing became persistent, Mozzie had pushed him out the door of the safe house, shouting directions to the nearest pharmacy. Neal discovered that the drugs he'd purchased put him to sleep after half an hour. Then he woke up about 2 hours later, clear-headed, able to breathe normally, and wired to point of pacing the floor. Gradually he slowed down, growing more miserable and obviously sick in the final hour and a half. If he timed this right, he'd get to the initial meet at the St. Louis sports bar right in the middle of the cycle, when he felt most normal. He'd crash in the evening, and then be back near normal again for the actual job.

The job itself didn't sound very difficult, which was disappointing. He liked to show off, and that was the whole point of agreeing to a job in the town where he grew up. He guessed being sick upped the challenge a bit, but whenever the museum staff noticed their art had been replaced by forgeries and summoned the cops, he couldn't imagine the authorities studying the crime and saying, "It would have been a simple job, except one member of the crew had a vicious cold. I'm really impressed he got away with it."

As the flight attendants went through the standard safety briefing, Neal let their voices lull him to sleep. There may have been a child in the row behind kicking his seat, and an infant screaming 5 rows ahead, but he didn't notice. He was still somewhat out of it when he boarded the Cessna in Chicago. About half way through that second flight, he felt his mind engaging.

Mozzie had called this morning, Neal remembered. A wake-up call, to make sure the cold or meds didn't cause him to miss his flight. Moz had thrown away a comment at the last minute, about Roland. "Word is he has more of a temper these days than when I worked with him. They say he was betrayed by a member of a crew a couple of years ago, and the Feds have been breathing down his neck ever since. Unsurprisingly, sometimes he just goes nuts and accuses people of being out to get him. Since he knows you the least of anyone on the crew, you'll have to be the most careful. Stay on plan, don't surprise him with any improvisations, and you'll be safe."

"Safe from what, exactly?" Neal had asked.

Moz mumbled something that might have been "strangulation" and then hung up.

Neal wanted to pace again, but there wasn't room in the Cessna. Instead he thought about his plans for the future. He'd designed what he thought of as his own degree program, studying with a wide variety of criminal "professors." He had the basics down. He was working on his masters degree now, and that meant identifying people who could take his skills to the next level. He wanted to be extraordinary, a true renaissance criminal.

Mozzie, Matthew Keller, Roland Villiers. Neal wanted to work with each of them because of what they had in common. They were brilliant strategists, skilled in planning and leading jobs, willing to let Neal learn from them.

But they were each different. That was the point. If they were all the same, he could work with just one of them and learn everything he needed to know. They could each teach him different things, and challenge him in different ways.

And he wasn't limiting his mentors to criminals. Even people wholly unconnected with crime could teach you helpful things. Art teachers loved to show you how to copy the work of the masters. And then there was that girl who flirted with him in a coffee shop last summer, asking how he kept in shape while she kept raving about rock climbing. He'd learned anyone could take classes that taught you the skills you needed to scale buildings. You could buy the supplies legally, not raising any red flags. Amazing!

He'd tried to tell Keller how cool it was to learn cat burglary skills in a neighborhood gym, but the guy didn't get it. They'd had fun when they first met, but Keller seemed so intense and impatient now. He had no time to enjoy the experience, to savor the rush of getting away with something that would boggle the minds of Interpol. Why stay in the business if you stopped having fun? That's what Neal should ask him next time.

Wow. Those cold meds made his mind jump like a grasshopper. But it would wear off. He'd be more focused, less wired by the time he reached the bar.

On that last job, Keller had a strip of wire with him. Neal saw Keller take out a guard with it. Keller said he'd choked the man, cutting off the air just long enough so he'd pass out. No permanent damage, no danger of murder charges or the extra penalties of being caught with a gun. "I'll save those risks for a more important job," Keller had said. And he'd been joking. Of course he'd been joking. It was just Mozzie's possible reference to strangulation bringing the memory back now, making Neal imagine that Keller hadn't been joking at all, because Keller didn't have fun anymore.

And that was making Neal question why he'd want to work with Keller again or start to work with this Roland guy. Maybe alternate mentors, ones who weren't criminals, were the way to go for the masters program.

Mozzie had avoided working with Roland this time. Did that mean anything? Why had Mozz kept the New York job and farmed out the one in St. Louis?

_Farmed_. That summed it up. Mozz thought any city as small and Midwestern as St. Louis was the middle of nowhere. As in: nowhere to hide. It was hard to picture Mozzie agreeing to a job in St. Louis in the first place. Although he'd said something about Detroit being the original location, and that was a place Mozzie would have felt more comfortable. Neal remembered when he'd first mentioned he'd grown up in Missouri. "Farm boy," Mozz had said. "That's why people instinctively trust you. Innocent, earnest farm boy couldn't possibly fool them."

Even when Neal had protested that he'd grown up in a city and didn't know the first thing about crops or livestock, Mozzie simply shook his head. "You used the words _crops_ and _livestock_ in the same sentence, proving my point. You can always reference that mindset to disarm people. It's a useful talent." A talent he planned to use today to convince Roland to trust him.

Neal, as Steve Tabernacle, was more on his game when he arrived in St. Louis. The woman at the car rental company was happy to chat and to ignore the paperwork. She barely glanced at his driver's license, not questioning that 24-year-old Neal was 32-year-old Steve. And when he said there was a typo in his address on the form, she let him take over the keyboard to make the corrections on his reservation. He distracted her from reviewing the final print out and signature, which said his name was Henry Winslow.

A few miles away he stopped at a fast food place, paid cash for a soft drink and fries, and tossed the Steve Tabernacle ID in the trash. As 27-year-old Henry, he had a sporty car and an hour to kill before meeting Roland. Plenty of time to visit the spot where Danny Brooks had died.


	3. Chapter 3 - Role Models

**Chapter 3: Role Models**

**Early December, 2003.**

There were good sides to going undercover. It made you think in new ways, gave you insight into the thought processes of a criminal going under a new alias.

But there were also hassles, and one of Peter Burke's least favorites was parting with his wedding ring. He'd thought ahead when picking rings, selecting something plain with no names or dates inscribed. That meant he could keep his ring when other agents had to remove theirs. But Philip Townsend wasn't married, and Roland Villiers might know that.

That meant Peter had to leave his ring with El. He had to cover up the tan line and constantly remind himself not to feel for his wedding band. He didn't normally fiddle with it, but when the band was missing his thumb kept rubbing against his ring finger to check for the piece of jewelry that seemed like a part of himself after 4 years of marriage.

After his meeting with Hughes, Peter packed, grabbed an early lunch with his wife, and flew to Chicago. Coach, of course. With the inevitable kid in the row behind kicking at his seat. How did those wannabe soccer players always find him? In the Chicago office he got the latest intel on Villiers. _The good thing is I've been too distracted to notice my ring is missing._

But the bad thing was: Villiers was either crazy or doing a good job of acting. After the first time the FBI questioned him, the man reportedly went on a rampage. At least 2 of his former associates had never been seen again. Another had relocated to the west coast. Now he periodically flipped out, accusing his partners of being out to get him. The last agent to interrogate the man had been stalked for 5 months, finally moving to another city. No wonder they were so happy to welcome an agent from New York for this assignment. Normally Peter would have faced some level of jealousy and annoyance from the local agents who wanted to take down the criminal they had identified and investigated, but not here. These agents wanted to take Peter out to dinner. They also warned him that wearing a wire was not going to work; Villiers would check for wires. They recommended a basic recording device and GPS tracker, which they were thrilled to lend him.

Unfortunately, Villiers' paranoia hadn't inhibited his ability to plan and get away with crimes. He was still a genius in that area.

It made Peter miss chasing the criminal code-named "James Bonds." That kid, whose real name was probably Neal Caffrey, had been in Europe for the last month. Peter got the occasional update from Interpol, but had to focus on crimes nearer to home. Like Villiers, Caffrey had a genius for crime. But he wasn't crazy, or at least was no crazier than anyone in his early twenties. Peter might be 37 now, but he could remember that feeling of immortality when he thought he was going to take the world of major league baseball by storm.

He wondered sometimes if Caffrey had ever played baseball. Peter had done a lot of research, and had never come across any information about Caffrey's childhood. Not that Peter needed to know about a criminal's childhood to catch him. But most criminals had obvious motives, like greed or revenge. Caffrey was much more complex, making Peter wonder: what drove someone with his talents and intelligence into a life of crime? How had he gotten to be so good at committing crimes at such a young age, and why had no one put a stop to it?

His latest theory was that Caffrey had grown up in foster care. No consistent role models to keep the kid on the straight and narrow or to catch the signs of getting involved with the wrong crowd. Likely moving frequently from one home to the next, honing the skill to re-invent himself to suit his situation.

He wondered what Caffrey would evolve into ten years from now. Would he keep his apparent distaste for guns and violence? Or would he fall under the influence of someone like Villiers?

A few months ago, inspired by a discussion with El, Peter had come up with an idea he called the Caffrey Conversation. It referred to his wish simply to talk to Neal Caffrey, to hear Caffrey's perspective on _why_ he was a criminal, and ideally to discover the key to reforming him. Peter knew the statistics. Most criminals were caught and punished, _not_ caught and reformed. Peter's fellow agents would laugh at the idea of turning Caffrey into one of the good guys. But El got it. She said it proved that justice was blind but not heartless.

Justice was also cheap. Or at least the FBI's brand of justice was on a budget. The flight to St. Louis this morning had been coach again, the rental car a little too cramped for a man over 6-foot tall, and last night's hotel… Well it had walls, a bed, and a TV that came with a sports channel. If the towels were dingy, the sheets scratchy, and the carpet stained, so what? True, he wished the walls were a bit more sound-proofed. Or that the restaurant served eggs that were still warm. But he wasn't here on vacation. He would cowboy up and do the job he'd been sent here to do.


	4. Chapter 4 - Ghosts

Warnings: Serious spoilers for the finale of season 3 and much of season 4. In case it hits your hot buttons, in this story Neal's mother was an alcoholic, and there is reference to a drowning.

**Chapter 4: Ghosts**

**St. Louis. Wednesday afternoon. Early December, 2003.**

Neal Caffrey guessed it was a little morbid, to visit the scene of his death. But going to St. Louis meant facing some ghosts. So he drove to the lake and remembered.

It had been Danny Brooks' 18th birthday. It was a weekday, meaning the real celebration with his friends would wait until the weekend. On the actual birthday there was just a pizza with his mom. She'd offered him a beer but he refused. He hated the smell of that beer, and wished she'd stop being buzzed all the time. He was certain she'd be back in rehab before he finished high school. Ellen dropped by with a cake. Afterward Danny pulled out the paperwork, showing her he was serious about enrolling in the police academy. Ellen made another argument for going to college first, Danny said he could do both, and then Ellen sighed. She'd told his mom it was time for some honesty, said "If you won't tell him, I will." And then she'd led him out to the front porch and turned his life inside out.

His name wasn't Danny Brooks. He wasn't from St. Louis; none of them were even from the Midwest. His mom's maiden name was Caffrey, and she wasn't an only child. She had family in the DC area. Ellen wasn't his aunt or even related to him at all, and her name wasn't really Ellen. His dad wasn't dead, wasn't the hero cop his mom always made him out to be. James Bennett was a criminal, a dirty cop, a murderer. Danny's name was really Neal. And they had been in Witness Protection since he was 3 years old.

Ellen had proof. She showed him newspaper articles about his dad, and his birth certificate – things she'd borrowed from the US Marshals because he was 18 now, old enough to know everything. She'd convinced them that Danny… No… that _Neal_ should hear the truth from "family" first, and that Neal should talk to the Marshals after school tomorrow. To talk about his options. He couldn't even grasp what that meant. What options?

It was too much to take in. He wanted to lock himself up in his bedroom, but his mom was still in the living room, and he couldn't face her right now. He was afraid of what he'd say, what she'd say. So he went to his car instead, not acknowledging Ellen's, "Be careful."

The car wasn't anything special. It was almost ten years old and needed a paint job, but he'd paid for it himself and took good care of it. It was _his_. Or Danny's. So weird to think of himself as someone other than Danny. But it felt as if he had been split into 2 people.

Naïve, trusting Danny was a good student who might be valedictorian. He liked art, and he wanted to be a cop. He had learned a lot about cops, about guns, about catching criminals. He'd studied what criminals did, how they did it, how they thought. It had been obsession, to be like his sainted dad.

Neal was nothing. A blank. No, not true. Neal was the son of a drunk liar and a criminal. From the east coast, apparently. He had to hide, or someone would try to kill him. That's what WitSec was about, right? You hid because you were in danger. When he thought about some of the things Ellen had taught him… how to blend into a crowd, how to notice exits and sneak out of places… She wasn't teaching him to catch the bad guys. She was teaching him how to run away. Because they were in danger.

There was a fast food place, a place _Danny_ liked, so he pulled in, got a drink and fries from the drive-thru, tossed his wallet onto the passenger seat, and just kept driving. It had been raining earlier, but was clear now, the weather mild and the a/c unreliable. He rolled down the windows and kept driving until he reached a road that followed the edge of a lake. Danny loved that road, enjoyed taking the winding curves. He decided Neal liked to drive fast, and didn't care as much about getting a ticket.

Neal hit a slick spot on the road, going much too fast. The car slid off the road and landed in the lake. Danny's wallet went out the window. When another driver pulled him out of the water, he wasn't breathing. That driver did CPR until the EMTs arrived to take over. At least, that's what they told him when he woke up in the ambulance.

He always considered that moment in the ambulance as the point when Danny died, and he became Neal. That's the name he gave in the hospital when they couldn't find any ID on him, and it's the name he kept when he went to Chicago and decided that Neal was a criminal, like his old man. And a liar, like his mom. But not a drunk.

Sometimes he wondered what the Marshals had told people about Danny Brooks. Did they say he ran away? Or did they pull his car out of the lake and say he'd died, even if they never found a body? He'd slipped out of the hospital and gone back to the house before leaving St. Louis for good. No one saw him, and his mom slept deeply when she'd been drinking. It was easy to grab a few things – some clothes, some cash and a fake ID he'd made – and to leave a note for his mom and Ellen. The note told them that Danny was gone, but had survived the lake as Neal. And it said he wouldn't contact them again.

He'd studied WitSec and the Marshals after he got settled in Chicago, and confirmed he was right to make that promise. They wouldn't want him in contact with his family, would consider such contact dangerous. Even when he was at his angriest with his mom and Ellen, he didn't want them in danger. He left them alone.

He should continue to leave them alone, now. But Neal as Henry Winslow still had time to on his hands. Pulling over at the spot his high school car had slid into the lake didn't take long. It wasn't like he'd brought flowers or anything, and he didn't want to gaze long at the place he'd drowned. It wouldn't hurt to drive through his old neighborhood. It was on the outskirts of downtown, which he'd have to go through anyway to reach the bar where he was going to meet Roland.

Chances were the Marshals had moved his Mom and Ellen out long ago. Just because his note had promised he'd stay away, that didn't mean the Marshals would be inclined to believe him.

Sure enough, the house his mom had lived in had a tricycle in the front yard now. There was a toddler running around, and the woman chasing her looked nothing like his mom.

But Ellen's house… Ellen's house had that same truck parked in front. Same truck, same license plate.

Neal had to keep driving. Stopping to stare would be suspicious. He couldn't simply pull over and knock on her door, no matter how much he wanted to talk to her. Anyway, he had no idea what he would say, and it was time to meet Roland. This wasn't a man he wanted to annoy. Danny had died in St. Louis, but Neal didn't intend to die here.


	5. Chapter 5 - Undercover

**Chapter 5: Undercover**

**St. Louis. Sports Bar. Wednesday evening. Early December, 2003.**

Everyone wore a St. Louis Rams shirt in this place. They stopped you right inside the door and made you change into one of their shirts if you weren't wearing one. Peter wasn't a particularly religious man, but he thanked God he hadn't been wearing a wire. His white dress shirt hung on a peg behind the bar, and he wouldn't get it back until he paid his tab. Which would include a $30 charge for his new sweatshirt, a shirt he would never wear in New York. He just hoped Hughes would approve the charge on his expense report.

When the hostess took his shirt, she also asked him to name his favorite football team. He'd said the Giants. It was true, but more importantly Villiers had told Townsend what to say. After some good-natured boos from the other patrons in the bar, the hostess directed Peter to the peanut gallery – a group of tables along a back wall with, yes, buckets of peanuts. Non-Rams fans had to stay there unless invited onto the playing field – the rest of the bar – by a fan of the home team.

Peter ordered a beer. A few minutes later a "local" approached his table. "I hate to see a man drink alone," said the woman. She was in her late forties, with hair in a shade of scarlet that couldn't possibly be natural. "I'm Wanda. Come over and join my husband Rollie and me. We moved here from Chicago a few years back, so you won't feel like the only outsider."

That was the invitation Villiers had told Townsend to expect. "Thanks. I'm here on business, and a colleague told me about this place." That was the agreed upon response. But Peter had to add, "But he skipped a few details."

Wanda laughed as she led the way to a table on the other side of the room. "I'm sure he did." She fit the description of one of Villiers' known accomplices, commonly known as "Red." The agents in Chicago thought it was a good bet she'd be part of the crew. She had expertise in security systems. She wasn't actually married to Villiers, but they frequently posed as a couple.

Two men were at the table. A thirty-something blond man with burn marks on his hands had to be the glass artist. He introduced himself as Miles. Not a talkative guy, but brawny. He'd easily lift the boxes of art work. The gray-haired, bearded man had to be in his 60s based on his file, but looked in his fifties. The man kept in shape. Peter could picture this guy lifting the boxes, or strangling someone with his bare hands. "You must be Wanda's husband."

Roland Villiers smiled. "Everyone calls me RV. I used to sell them. Now we travel in one. There's no better way to see the country." That was in Villiers' file, too. He avoided the paper trail and government scrutiny involved in most methods of travel. No TSA checks at the airport, no rental car agreements, no hotel registrations. As long as he had time to plan a job in advance, he could drive where he needed to go and park the RV. He pulled a motorcycle behind it, perfect for getting in and out of places quickly.

"I've never tried it," Peter said. "But then I never truly feel at home unless I'm surrounded by works of art, and they don't tend to travel well. My goal is to find away to retire at the Guggenheim."

"You'd be surprised at how much art can fit in a suitable RV," Villiers countered.

"I'd love to hear more about it." The recording device in the watch the Chicago office loaned Peter was activated. It could store an hour's worth of conversation. The FBI didn't have much of a presence in St. Louis, but local PD had been notified that an operation was underway, and could be there in minutes if Peter called to say he had enough evidence for an arrest. "Actually, I'd love to see it, but I didn't notice an RV in the parking lot."

"It's not far," Villiers promised. "But there's still one more member of our party yet to arrive. I want to wait for him. He's also from New York. I promised an old friend I'd look out for him when he's in town."

"Maybe I know him," Peter said, fervently hoping it wouldn't be anyone who'd recognize him as an agent. "What's his name?"

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal Caffrey pulled into the parking lot 15 minutes late. How was he going to explain this to Roland? He couldn't tell the truth: that he grew up in St. Louis and didn't think he needed directions to the infamous Shirts and Skins bar. He hadn't enabled the car's GPS until he realized the main road to the bar was under construction and he'd have to find an alternate route. Anyone new to town would have asked directions or used the damn GPS from the beginning and made it on time. And Roland was expecting a New Yorker. Mozz said he didn't like surprises. Therefore starting out with, "Surprise, I'm a native, totally an unplanned coincidence," wasn't his best bet.

And the irony of the meet happening in this bar wasn't lost on him. If Danny Brooks hadn't "died" on his birthday, his friends would have taken him to this bar the following weekend. You had to be at least 18 to get in. Alcohol wasn't the draw, nor were sports. It was the shirt policy. You could watch women peel off their shirts and pose in their bras, and then watch again if they decided to change back into their original shirts when they left. That's why guys wanted to visit this bar as soon as they turned 18.

It hurt his head to think back to a time he'd been that innocent. Honestly, it was starting to hurt his head to think about anything. But at least the sniffling and coughing weren't an issue yet. No one would know he was sick.

He reached the door at the same time as 3 women, and he gestured for them to go first. He watched the show, of course, considering for the first time that probably it wasn't just males who looked forward to being old enough to visit this place. And if he still hadn't figured that out, maybe Mozz had a point with that "innocent, earnest farm boy" label. Or the cold meds weren't leaving him nearly as clear-headed as he thought.

There was a moment when he thought he must be hallucinating. Because in the bar, sitting with 2 people who must be Mozzie's pals Roland and Red, Neal saw Peter Burke. Crazy, right? A New York City FBI agent sitting in a St. Louis sports bar with 2 criminals – that just didn't happen.

But he looked again, and it was definitely Peter. Neal always thought of the agent as Peter. That was something Mozzie taught him: refer to your mark by his first name, because it makes everyone sound like friends, and we all trust our friends, right? So your mark will trust you faster if you're on a first-name basis.

It went both ways, though. When Neal learned that Agent Peter Burke was assigned to his case, he studied the man, and it started to feel like Peter was more than just a random agent. You knew what to expect from Peter. He was clever, thorough, and… good. That was the part that got to Neal. After learning hero-cop-dad was a bad guy, it seemed like every law enforcement officer Neal met had a dark side. They took bribes, or stole evidence, or cheated on their wives, or took a second job under the table and didn't pay taxes. There was always some weakness to exploit. At least the criminals who mentored Neal didn't pretend to be heroes. They seemed more honest than the so-called good guys.

But after months of studying Peter, no dark side had emerged. Neal was starting to believe that the good guys finally had someone who would have been worthy of Danny's hero-worship.

To find this would-be-hero consorting with thieves on Danny's home turf was a shock. Neal stepped back into the parking lot to consider what he'd seen. Either Peter was supplementing his income by acting as an inside-man for criminals. Or he was still a good guy, undercover.

And that's what came of thinking of the enemy by his first name all of this time: now Neal's inclination was to give Peter the benefit of the doubt. He wanted Peter to be the good guy. And he wanted Peter to be very good at undercover work, or else Roland was going to get very mad. That could leave Peter very dead.

The adrenaline helped Neal think more clearly than he had all day. And he concluded that Peter was after Roland or Mozzie. Neal had been a last-minute replacement, using aliases that had been set up for Mozzie. Therefore Peter would be surprised to see Neal.

Roland didn't like surprises. Seeing Peter's surprise would be the tip of the iceberg. Roland would be surprised to learn that Peter and Neal sort of knew each other. And they had no time to establish a coherent, consistent story that Roland would buy. Therefore Roland would be angry, distrust the level of coincidence, and decide that either Neal or Peter (or both) was the enemy. Roland's enemies had a tendency to disappear.

As Neal saw it, he had 3 choices. One: He could leave now, making a clean getaway and leaving Peter to fend for himself when Roland realized he didn't have his full crew. Two: He could go into the bar, tell Roland that Peter was the enemy, leave Roland and Peter to sort that out, and possibly still hit the museum tonight if Roland wasn't arrested. Three: He could go into the bar, convince Roland that _he_ was the enemy, and buy Peter his best chance of escaping Roland's wrath. Option 3 left Neal facing Roland's wrath, but at least he would know it was coming and could go into the situation with a plan.

A quick check of the parking lot revealed 2 rental cars, other than Neal's. One of those was a luxury SUV. The other screamed, "I'm on a government budget!" Sure enough, that car had a suitcase in the back with no name tag, but containing Brooks Brothers suits. Definitely Peter's car. Neal grabbed the suitcase and put it in the trunk of his own rental.

AN: I've never heard of a bar with this type of dress code, but it sounded fun.


	6. Chapter 6 - Show Time

**Chapter 6: Show Time**

**St. Louis. Sports bar. Wednesday evening. Early December, 2003.**

"I _hate_ working with new guys," Villiers repeated. "Rookies. With this kinda job you gotta stay on point. Gotta follow the damn schedule. Does he think I have all day to wait for him? I can't believe he conned anyone into recommending him. Hell, he's probably late 'cause he's busy selling me out. If I get even a hint of cop or Fed following him, he's gonna regret it for the rest of his very short life."

Peter had already suggested maybe they didn't need this rookie, at which point Villiers launched into a rant about clients who tried to micromanage the specialists they hired. "I swear to God," Villiers had said, "if you ask about details of the plan one more time, I'm gonna start thinking you're gathering evidence for the Feds." Red reminded Villiers that they had "vetted" everyone involved, and that seemed to satisfy him, but Peter worried that Villiers could still decide to turn on either his client or the rookie – or both—before this day was over. So far Villiers wasn't providing the information needed for Peter to jump straight into an arrest. It looked more and more like he'd have to let Villiers go through with the theft, assuming it didn't turn into a murder investigation, instead.

In the last 20 minutes, 7 people had entered the bar. Each time it had been the same. Peter heard the cheers and applause as someone changed shirts, and heard the Rams named as the favorite team. He stopped paying attention because he didn't want to come across as anxious.

This time, though, the cheers were different. Mostly women were cheering, he noticed. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter could see the newest patron was taking forever to remove his shirt. Come on, how long did it take to undo a row of buttons? The women were almost screaming now, and the newbie threw his tie to the loudest table. _Show off_.

Finally the guy pulled on a sweatshirt and answered the question about his favorite team with, "Oh the Rams, of course. But a friend of mine dared me to say the Giants."

That got Villiers' attention. And Peter turned around as well, because he thought he recognized that voice. _Caffrey. Could this get any worse?_

There was the off chance Peter could arrest both Villiers and Caffrey in the same day. But his luck didn't seem to be running that way. Villiers had sounded increasingly unhinged the longer they waited for the rookie, and Caffrey didn't seem the type to improve Villiers' mental state.

Meanwhile, Caffrey appeared completely absorbed in a debate about whether or not he should be banished to the peanut gallery. Two tables of fans near the door were making their opinions known, loudly. As far as Peter could tell, Caffrey hadn't noticed him yet. "I'm getting another beer," he told Villiers, and walked over to the bar. That bought him some time, but how on earth was he going to turn this around? This wasn't his ideal Caffrey Conversation scenario. No one was going to bring the con artist over to the side of the angels in the roughly 60 seconds Peter estimated he might have before all hell broke loose.

"This is a surprise," Caffrey said, having somehow materialized at Peter's elbow. "And I've heard Roland doesn't care for surprises." He ordered a glass of wine.

_Really? Wine in a sports bar?_ "Look, I know this is unconventional, but we need to work together for now. Villiers is trying to decide between firing you or just killing you. If you'll go along with me here, I'll convince him to let you walk. _I'll _let you walk."

"Catching him is more important than catching me? I think I'm insulted. Who does he expect you to be?"

"Philip Townsend. The client. Bored accountant investing his ill-gotten gains in ill-gotten art."

"Nice job if you can get it. Take these." Caffrey passed a key chain into Peter's hand so smoothly that Peter had to be a little impressed. "Toyota Camry. Beige. It's in the second row, 7 spaces from the exit. Roland's about to head over here; tell him I'm a Fed."

"Are you out of your mind?"

"Possibly. He's dangerous. He's smart. He's seen us talking and that will make him suspicious because we aren't supposed to know each other. Right now I'm the one he's mad at. Let's run with that."

"There is no way someone your age would be the sole field agent in an operation like this. Either you're not a Fed, or you're not alone." Who knew the Caffrey Conversation would consist of teaching him FBI protocol that might help him get away with more crimes in the future? "A smart guy like Villiers is going to know that."

"Only if we give him time to think about it." Caffrey flashed a smile at the bartender who handed him the wine, and then raised his voice slightly. "For the last time, you've made a mistake. You don't know me."

Villiers yanked Caffrey away from the bar, toward a less crowded part of the room. "Keep it down! We aren't here to draw attention to ourselves." Then he turned to Peter, who had followed them. "What's going on here?"

It went against Peter's instincts to put a civilian into danger, or to put his own safety in the hands of a felon. But everything he knew about Caffrey said this was the right decision. The kid was brilliant and he'd never been known to hurt anyone. Time to go with the gut. "You were right not to trust this guy. I saw him when the FBI visited my office last month. They were investigating one of my clients."

"Your client?" Villiers repeated. "Not you?"

"Well, of course not me. I've been very careful, and with all due modesty I did graduate in the top 4% of my class. I don't leave trails that can be followed by some random Fed who picks up an accounting case twice year." Peter smirked, just like Townsend had. He really could channel that jerk.

"You're sure it was him?" Villiers shook Caffrey's arm for emphasis. "And he was with the FBI?"

"I'm not –" Caffrey started, but Peter interrupted.

"Without a doubt. RV, I'm aware of the stereotypes. Accountants are into numbers, not people. But I also run a highly successful business in a very competitive industry. The reason for my success is that I get to know people. I remember them. Really, look at him. Would you forget that face? He looks like a freaking choirboy!"

_"Choirboy?" Caffrey repeated softly._

"I see what you mean," Villiers said.

_"I mean, sure, I was in a choir in elementary school, but –" _

"But he came _highly_ recommended," Villiers continued, "by someone I've known a long time. He's never been tricked by a Fed before."

"In your business," Peter pressed, "like mine, every colleague is one day a friend and another day a competitor. The key is to remember their roles keep changing."

"You make a good point."

_"I suppose it's better than farm boy. As long as I don't have to break into song every few minutes. Because musicals really aren't my thing."_ Caffrey looked up. "Oh, are you done? Is it my turn now?"

It took a great effort not to laugh. But Peter could see the kid playing up the joke. In a few seconds he'd subtly tugged the sleeves of his sweatshirt past his wrists, making the garment look too big for him. By staring down at the floor he'd caused his hair, already disheveled by pulling on the sweatshirt, to tumble forward over his face. Just those few subtle moves made Caffrey look like the quintessential mischievous choirboy. Maybe he could lighten the mood enough that Villiers would…

"Stop wasting my time! I still have half a mind to kill you both and just walk away from this whole mess."

Or maybe not.

"Yeah, it's your turn, rookie. Tell me why Townsend would lie about this. What does he gain by convincing me you're a Fed?"

Caffrey pushed his hair back away from his face, the move returning his sleeves to the correct length. He took a step forward, and stood with his hands on his hips. If he carried a weapon it would be easy to reach it in such a stance. His eyes squinted just so. It was a standard cop pose with a little bit of wild west gunfighter mixed in. It was authoritative, intimidating, and likely to convince Villiers that Caffrey was undercover for some law enforcement agency or another.

He'd gone from convincingly 17 to convincingly 27 in seconds. The kid was _made_ for undercover work. He could teach a seminar at Quantico.

"It doesn't matter," Caffrey said. "The fact is, he has good instincts, even if he's pointing the finger in the wrong direction."

"You're saying there's a Fed in this room, but it isn't you." Peter got it ahead of Villiers. If they could stay ahead of Villiers long enough, Caffrey's plan might work.

Caffrey nodded. "When I pulled into the parking lot, I saw 4 rental vehicles. There should be 3: mine, yours and Miles', because Roland and Red came on the motorcycle. This place isn't a tourist trap. They're off the beaten path and they don't advertise at the airport or hotels. An extra rental is suspicious. What's your car, Townsend?"

"Beige Camry."

"Mine's an import, too. The SUV belongs to Miles, of course, because it's needed for transporting the artwork. The extra car is domestic, black, economy. It's what the government gets for the standard discount. Find the driver of that car, and we find our Fed."

"How do we do that?" Peter asked.

"I'm going out to the parking lot, as if I'm leaving. Then I'll come back inside to tell the hostess I've seen someone damage the Fed's car. She'll announce it, and he'll go outside to investigate. I'll talk to him. Follow us, and see for yourselves. Just try not to scare him off too soon. I can make him show me his ID, if you give me time."

"Townsend saw you with the FBI," Villiers said. "You think I'm gonna let you walk?"

"Listen, I'll admit I was there that day. The thing is, Townsend's client was tipped off. He asked me to go there, see if I could grab some incriminating evidence. The Feds had already arrived, so I tried to blend in." Caffrey gestured toward Peter. "Ask him if the FBI got what they needed to convict his client." He shook his head when Villiers turned his attention to Peter.

"They didn't end up charging him," Peter said.

Villiers finally let go of Caffrey's arm. "Here's how this is gonna work. Townsend and I leave first, with Miles. You come out to the parking lot, lead us to the rental you claim you saw. If it isn't there, or you try to run, I shoot you. Repeatedly. Got it?"

Caffrey led them to the car, and then convinced them to hang back by Miles' SUV. He went back inside, and gave the hostess the license plate number of the car parked next to Peter's black rental. The owner went outside and they chatted. After a couple of minutes, the driver's door to Peter's rental car was opened.

Peter checked his pockets. He still had the keys to the Camry, but the keys to his own car were gone. He mentally added _pickpocket_ to the list of Caffrey's skills.

"Follow if that car leaves," Villiers ordered Miles, who got into the SUV and cranked the engine. In the same instant, Peter's car pulled out and darted toward the exit.

Villiers was livid, yelling at Miles to move already, while running ahead to shoot at the escaping car. That was some serious rage.

Peter didn't want to think about the paperwork he'd face if his rental car… his stolen rental car… was returned with bullet holes in it. Assuming it was returned at all. Making matters worse, his plane ticket home and real ID were hidden under the rental car's spare tire. "Now what?" he asked the universe at large.

"Now we rob a museum," Villiers said. And Peter had it recorded.


	7. Chapter 7 - Down Time

**Chapter 7: Down Time**

**St. Louis. Sports bar. Wednesday night. Early December, 2003.**

Peter Burke wanted to catch Villiers in the act of robbing the St. Louis Art Museum, but he was still undercover. As Philip Townsend he had to ask, "If the FBI knows who we are and what we plan to do, shouldn't we cancel?"

That's when he learned Wanda was more than a security expert. If Villiers had a genius for planning crimes, Wanda had a genius for keeping Villiers' plans on track. While Villiers ranted about not letting any Fed stop him, Wanda called Miles back to the bar and quietly explained to Peter why the job would go on as scheduled. "That kid's no more a Fed than I am."

"But I saw him with the FBI," Peter protested. "Even when he tried to claim he wasn't a Fed, he wasn't convincing. He looked and acted like an agent."

"I'm sure he did. I looked into him when Roland told me we had a last-minute replacement, and I found he's a phenomenal con. If you think he's a Fed, it's because that's what he wants you to think. But there's no way someone his age is a field agent on this kind of job."

"Why would he want us to think he's an agent?"

"Someone doesn't want us to go through with the job. That was your first reaction, right? That the Feds are onto us, so we have to cancel. We have competition." Before Peter could ask who, Wanda continued, "You saw our faux-agent at your office when a client was being investigated. I'd say that client wasn't happy with how things went that day. Maybe he thinks you were a little too helpful with the FBI. He looks for a way to get even, and making you think the FBI is after you makes it all the sweeter. Somehow he got our first guy to back out, and gets his own guy on the team instead. Roland has a certain reputation for not trusting new guys anyway. It all fell neatly into place. Now, are you going to let this old client of yours win, or are you going to get what you came here for?"

Finally, Villiers laid out the plan. Peter recorded every word of it. He knew exactly when the crew and the forged art would arrive at the museum. No need to have cops stake out the place in advance and risk spooking Villiers. Let Villiers get there first, with the evidence, and then surround him. Perfect.

Villiers was going to take the role he'd originally had in mind for Caffrey. All Peter had to do was to volunteer to be the wheelman. He knew exactly how it would go down. He'd meet the crew at Villiers' RV at midnight. The forged art would be in the SUV. Villiers would drive them all to the museum in that SUV. Peter would be the look out, and then get the crew back to the RV once they completed their job. In reality, once everyone was assembled at the museum, Peter would turn off the GPS tracker on his phone. That would be the take down signal. He'd get out of the way and let the police make the arrest. They'd have a great example of coordination between law enforcement agencies, etc., etc. The bureaucrats would be happy, Hughes would be happy, Peter would be happy.

No. That's not right. Peter would be happy-ish. He'd be happier if he could arrest Caffrey, too. But there was negligible evidence against him, and he wouldn't be at the scene of the crime.

As Peter found Caffrey's beige rental in the parking lot, he couldn't quite convince himself that he wanted to arrest Caffrey. Not tonight, anyway. The kid had helped, even putting himself in danger to make sure Peter's cover held up. There were times this evening when it actually felt like they were partners, double-teaming Villiers.

_Burke & Caffrey_. They would make a great team. But he had to admit the whole "Caffrey Conversation" idea was looking like a pipedream. If Caffrey was always as wired as he seemed this evening, it would be impossible to make him sit still long enough for a serious conversation. Peter had to chuckle about the _choirboy_ bit. But Choirboy Caffrey had stolen a car and impersonated an agent. Sort of. If you could impersonate an agent by denying you were an agent in such a way that everyone thought you were lying. Peter could imagine running that by El. And she would say, "Yeah, I don't see you getting a conviction on that one."

So he wouldn't try to arrest Caffrey today. But he could at least find where Caffrey had left his car. There were 4 and half hours until midnight. Plenty of time for a trained agent to comb through the clues left in Caffrey's rental.

Glove compartment, first. Rental agreement. The car was rented to a Henry Winslow, age 27. Smart. No rental company wanted to hand their cars over to 24-year-old boys. They either refused or charged astronomical rates.

Peter added _Henry Winslow_ to a growing list of Caffrey aliases.

Under the rental agreement was the standard city map everyone got from the local rental agencies. Nothing circled, no notes to decipher. Peter didn't find any other paperwork in the front seat area. There was a soft drink in a cup holder, from a major fast food chain that would have dozens of locations scattered across the city.

GPS. "Please tell me Caffrey's the type who will ask for directions." And there it was. Last trip ended here at the Shirts and Skins bar, and originated downtown. Now he had a direction that led away from the airport and the museum, meaning something else in St. Louis had Caffrey's attention.

"If I were Caffrey, I'd want a hotel away from the main action or obvious locations. And of course I'd want something ridiculously expensive."

GPS wasn't going to find the most expensive hotels for him. Sadly, neither was Peter's "smart" phone up to the task.

The Bureau received advance demos of upcoming technology, and it was amazing. By 2007, experts predicted, there really would be smart phones, with network speeds capable of carrying the data to make those phones smart, and the "killer apps" he'd heard about since 2001 would finally make an appearance. And to think Apple was considered a leader in this revolution. Who even remembered Apple anymore? Except for iPod owners, of course. Peter was willing to bet his last paycheck that Caffrey had an iPod.

Knowing about advances expected years from now simply made his current phone more depressing. He wasn't even sure he could get a 2G signal in this parking lot. But all he needed was to make a plain old phone call to the Bureau. They had clerks for this kind of thing. Armed with the information they provided, Peter visited the most expensive hotel in the area Caffrey had been driving through, then the second most expensive. He found his rental car on the upper level of that hotel's parking garage.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Fortunately Roland's rage hindered his aim. None of his bullets hit Neal or the car Neal had borrowed from Peter. At one point Neal thought he saw Miles' SUV in the rear view mirror and he was worried, because this rental car was seriously lacking in power. And it was a little claustrophobic. Peter was a couple of inches taller. Neal wanted to return the car to Peter just so he could watch Peter try to drive this thing. That would be soooo funny.

In fact, many things seemed soooo funny right now, and that was a concern. It was good he'd gotten away from Shirts and Skins when he did, because clear-headed was becoming a distant memory. He was pretty sure he'd said and done some things that he'd rather not have in his FBI file. Showing off in front of Peter had been a mistake. The goal should be for the FBI to remain ignorant of his full skill set, so that they would underestimate him.

Neal had learned some things about Peter, at least. The agent had adjusted quickly to Neal's plan, and played the indignant client to perfection. Undercover work wasn't much different from running a con, and in another life Neal could imagine partnering with Peter on a job. _He looks like a freaking choirboy._ That was genius.

If Neal ever saw a wanted poster for "The Choirboy" he'd have to give up crime and take up a life of… well, whatever adult choirboys did. Maybe they moved on to solos. Neal noted the Christmas lights in the shopping center to his left and started singing _The Little Drummer Boy_. When he realized he had been stuck on the pa-rum-pa-pum-pums for a while without finding the transition back to the next verse, he tried _Hark the Herald Angels Sing. _He had more success with that song, but by the end of the second verse he was coughing uncomfortably hard and decided to be quiet for a while.

With the menacing SUV gone, Neal drove downtown on autopilot. He knew these streets like the back of his hand. Sometimes he'd come here after school to wait for his mom to get off work, because hanging out at the house alone had been boring. He met an interesting set of people, learning skills from playing pool to speaking different languages. In his teens he'd gotten his own jobs downtown, earning the money for his car and for art supplies.

Tonight he made his way toward the best hotels. He entered one of the hotel parking garages and parked on the top floor, so the car wouldn't be a needle in a hay stack. He was fairly certain there was a newer hotel nearby, but this one was still nice. He wouldn't mind staying here. He'd bet their rooms had tissues and he'd really like that, because his nose was running something awful and wiping it on his sweatshirt sleeve didn't seem very sanitary at all, but what choice did he have because Peter didn't have any tissues in his car and that was really thoughtless of him.

The cold medicine was wearing off fast now, much faster than it had last time. And now that his cold was making itself known again it was even worse than he remembered. He was sure he hadn't been shivering like this before, or felt so achy.

He'd feel better in the hotel, in a nice room with a nice bed. But the hotel entrance was soooo far away. He needed to park here, because of Peter. That was important. But once Peter tracked down the car, maybe he could drive Neal to the hotel entrance. Because it was soooo far away.

But maybe he could move to the back seat. And maybe Peter had water back there. Neal's throat was really dry from all the coughing and there was no water at all in the front seat. With more effort than it should have taken, Neal settled in the back seat. It was more comfortable, but there was no water there, either. If Peter didn't start stocking his car better, Neal might decide to hate him. And the Fed was taking forever to get there. It wasn't as if… It wasn't… Neal squinted as he tried to make the memories clearer. He had forgotten to tell Peter where he was going. Oops. Well, he could fix that. He was a smart guy. He could figure something out. He just needed to rest for a minute first.

AN: For those who don't remember, the first iPhone launched in 2007. In 2003, when this story was set, that type of functionality and speeds were still a dream. The big cell phone carriers in the US were just starting to roll out their "3G" networks.


	8. Chapter 8 - Nap Time

**Chapter 8: Nap Time**

**St. Louis. Hotel parking garage. Wednesday night. Early December, 2003.**

No bullet holes, Peter Burke was happy to see. Now if he could just find where Caffrey stashed the keys because obviously the con would be…

Oddly, the con artist was not long gone at all, but passed out on the back seat. With doors unlocked and the keys in the ignition.

No bullet holes in the car, therefore no bullet holes in the man. No signs of an automobile accident. No blood. Peter shook Caffrey's shoulder. No response. At least he was breathing.

Someone might have drugged Caffrey's drink, although there wouldn't have been many opportunities, and what would be the motive? And there was no way he was wasted from drinking half a glass of wine. Right? Unless… "Caffrey, so help me, if you went bar hopping and got drunk driving _my_ rental car I will arrest you right now!" Caffrey wheezed. "What the hell?" Peter pulled Caffrey's nearest arm until the kid was sitting upright. He started coughing so hard Peter had to hold on to him, or he might have slid face-first into the back of the driver's seat. And now Peter sighed. Mystery solved, and the answer wasn't one he wanted to hear. "You're burning up, Caffrey. You're sick."

Caffrey nodded and made some sort of monotone "MmmMmMmMm" sound.

"Are you humming?"

Caffrey nodded again.

"Stop it."

"Can't. Can't find it."

"Find what?" Peter asked.

"The end. It just keeps going round and round again."

"This is ridiculous. What song is it?"

"Can't tell you, or it will get you, too."

"Ok. Give me a moment." Peter closed his eyes and attempted to ignore the humming. There had to be a way to get through to the intelligence hidden behind the fever. Something simple and basic for Caffrey to grasp onto, so Peter didn't have to suffocate him. "You know the alphabet song, right? Of course you do. It ends with Z. After Z, no more song, no more singing or humming. Do that for me, can you? Start with A, end with Z. I'm going to look for something."

Peter opened the trunk of Caffrey's rental, hoping to find Caffrey's luggage and whatever cold medicine he'd been taking. But Caffrey's rental held Peter's luggage. Peter opened the trunk of his own rental to put his luggage where it belonged, and there was a duffle bag he didn't recognize. Caffrey's, of course. "That was needlessly complex," he complained. Yet he had to acknowledge a certain mixed up logic to it, a certain symmetry that might appeal to a feverish con artist who intended to swap cars. Caffrey wouldn't have suddenly gotten this sick in the last hour. He'd been sick for a while now, would have been somewhat impaired the entire time they were at the bar. Interesting. Maybe wired wasn't his natural state.

Inside Caffrey's bag was a cold medicine. Peter read the notes and ingredients, then returned to the mercifully silent back seat. "How long have you been taking this?"

Caffrey took the box. "Once last night. Once this morning. It wore off and I wanted more but there's no water in your car, Peter. I hated you for that at first, but you made the song go away, so I can't hate you anymore."

"Wow. You have no filters at all right now, do you?"

Caffrey was coughing again, holding the box of medicine to his chest as if simply being near it would help. Peter went back to the Camry and retrieved the drink Caffrey had left there. It was only half-full and diluted from melted ice, but would be better than nothing.

"I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news," Peter said while Caffrey drank, "but the stuff in that box only suppresses symptoms. It doesn't actually cure anything. Essentially it made you feel better while you were getting worse. Let's get you back to your room, and then I'll make a run to the drug store for something else." Peter paused for a moment. "This is where you're staying, right?"

"Yeah, let's stay here."

Peter didn't bother arguing that the hotel didn't fit within his expense budget. He drove them to the hotel entrance and grabbed the luggage while the valet parked the car. In the lobby, he found Caffrey at the front desk, checking in as Henry Winslow. "Here's yours," he said, handing Peter a key card.

"I don't need – " Peter started to protest.

"Sure you do. I'm going to sleep as soon as we reach the room, and you're still planning to buy something better for my cold, right? With your own key card you won't have to wake me up to get in the room when you're back from the pharmacy."

The pretty blond at the front desk handed Caffrey a receipt and said, "We do have a doctor on call for our guests. Would you like me to send him to your room?"

"No," said Caffrey at the same time Peter said, "Yes."

"Yes," repeated Peter. "He should see a doctor."

"He'll be there within an hour," the desk clerk promised, "with some basic cold and flu meds. No need to go to a pharmacy. We'll send a driver to pick up anything the doctor prescribes if he doesn't have it with him. Just relax and get your son settled."

Peter looked away to hide his shock. He put Caffrey's bag over his shoulder, picked up his own in his left hand, placing his right hand on Caffrey's shoulder to guide him toward the elevators. "My son?" he asked in a low voice.

"Stepson, actually. But I told her you liked me to call you _Dad_." Away from the audience of the desk clerk, Caffrey let the exhaustion and discomfort return to his expression. He leaned a bit into the agent's hand on his shoulder once they stepped into the elevator. "Figured you would be bossy, and it was a simple explanation. Those are usually best."

They stopped at the 7th floor and Peter continued to guide Neal. "How about telling her I was your boss? That's a simple explanation for bossiness."

"No," Caffrey said. "Any company putting us up here would spring for a separate room for my boss." He opened the door to the room.

The wide, stone-tiled entry had closets to the right and a luxurious bathroom to the left, with a large tub and separate shower. Continuing into the room beyond the closets were a bureau topped with a big-screen TV and a desk. To the left were 2 beds. And at the end of the room, a wall of windows provided an amazing view of the Gateway Arch. How had Caffrey sweet-talked the desk clerk into giving them a room with the best view in the city? He'd only had a couple of minutes to talk to her. "Nice view," Peter said.

Caffrey just shrugged. "Which bed do you want?"

"I'm only staying here long enough to make sure you see that doctor."

The con man sat on the nearest bed and pulled off his shoes and exchanged his sweatshirt for a dress shirt before flopping down. He draped one arm over his eyes, as if the lights bothered him. "All that time you spend on surveillance, and you're passing up a chance to watch me now? This has got to be more comfortable than those municipal vans."

Peter had to admit to himself that it was tempting, if he were willing to take the chance that while he learned about Caffrey, Caffrey would also be learning about him.

On the one hand, staying in a room paid for by a suspect raised ethical issues. On the other hand, it was the perfect set-up for the Caffrey Conversation. If they split the room charges, he could eliminate the appearances of accepting a bribe. But Peter still wondered, "Why offer to share your space with someone you're usually running away from?"

No answer. Peter stared at Caffrey, who seemed to be asleep. He looked away, because sleep made almost anyone look younger and more innocent, and that was just another con. Checking his watch, he saw it would be a good time to call his wife. He'd rather have a little more privacy, but didn't know when he'd have a better chance to talk to her tonight. He walked over to the windows. Being next to them improved the signal for his phone slightly, and by facing away from the beds there was less chance he'd be overheard. Because he wanted privacy, he told himself, not because he thought his roommate needed sleep.

"Hey honey," he said when his wife answered the phone.

"How's everything going?" Elizabeth asked. Even though Peter didn't do undercover work often, she knew the drill: stick to boring, non-specific conversation until he confirmed no one was listening in.

"Remember what I said about undercover work? It always starts with a simple, straightforward plan…"

"And then you deal with the complications. I take it things have gotten complicated. Should I be worried?"

"No," Peter said. "Just annoyed. I've acquired a roommate who is either really asleep or doing a good job of faking it."

"Oh. Tell me about the roommate."

"Neal Caffrey."

There was a pause as Elizabeth processed this bit of news. She had been the inspiration for the Caffrey Conversation idea, recommending that Peter should simply ask the kid why he'd turned to a life of crime and then should plant the idea that he still had other options. "Have you _talked_ to him?"

"I haven't had a chance yet. Looks like he's got a variation on the vicious cold that's been going around the office. We're waiting for a doctor to check him out."

"You didn't mention that he was going to be St. Louis, too. Did you know?"

Peter glanced toward the bed. Caffrey hadn't moved. "I think it was a surprise for both of us. And maybe the biggest surprise of all is how he handled it. He kept my cover safe by placing suspicion on himself. Now they think he's an agent."

"Impersonating a federal agent. Isn't that illegal?"

"It's supposed to be, but he couldn't make it that easy for me. You might say he found a loophole."

AN: The hotel is a combination of a real hotel in St. Louis, and another one in Denver that had a room layout I liked. I've never been to a hotel that had a doctor on call. I just made up that amenity as useful to this story.

"And you're safe? They really don't suspect you?"

"Yeah." Peter paused, wondering how best to reassure his wife without lying. Villiers wouldn't hesitate to kill him if the truth came out before Peter could arrest him. There was a chance that Caffrey had a plan to redeem himself in Villiers' eyes by proving Peter was an agent. But his gut told him Caffrey wouldn't do that. Caffrey forged, he stole, he lied, but he didn't jeopardize the lives of others. And sharing a room was a way for Peter to see that Caffrey wasn't contacting Villiers. Was Caffrey trying to prove that Peter could trust him? It was something of a shock to realize that, at least in this instance, Peter already did trust him. "There will be other complications, I'm sure, but this isn't a double-cross."

"Let me get this straight. You're telling me Neal Caffrey was there for a job, for which he presumably would be paid very well. He saw you there, realized your cover could be in jeopardy, and his reaction was to keep you safe by getting himself cut out of the action. And he did it in such a way that, not only does he not get paid this time, but he also loses out on any future, um, income opportunities with this group of people. Is that right?"

"That about sums it up," Peter said. "I know how unlikely it sounds."

"I'm starting to understand why Neal is the one you would rather reform than arrest."

"It's not an either-or option, El. There has to be justice. But sometimes… Sometimes there can be more."

"Did you thank him?" When Peter didn't respond, Elizabeth continued, "I'm going to take that as a _No_. Thank him, Peter. People like to be thanked and praised for doing the right thing. That's part of what encourages us to make the effort to do good things again, when it would be easier to do nothing."

"I get it. So now I will thank my wife for being exceptionally wise and patient. I wish -" Peter was interrupted by a knock on the door. "The doctor's here. Gotta go. Love you, hon."


	9. Chapter 9 - Doctor's Orders

**Chapter 9: Doctor's Orders**

**St. Louis. Hotel room. Wednesday night. Early December, 2003.**

It was a calculated risk to fall asleep with Peter Burke in the room. You were vulnerable in sleep. But that was the point. Let his pursuer think of him as vulnerable, maybe even pity him. Go back to underestimating him.

Ok, the truth was Neal Caffrey had been too tired to stay awake any longer. But if he could get more value than just rest out of falling asleep, he'd take it.

Drifting to sleep had also meant he didn't have to answer the question of why he wanted Peter to stay. He really didn't know yet. Neal was acting on impulse. He was good at what he did, and trusted his instincts when he didn't have the time or clarity to think things through.

Peter was right; Neal didn't have a lot of filters right now, and he was learning some rather interesting things about himself. Being a con man, always playing a role, meant you became good at hiding who you really were, even hiding it from yourself. The combination of the cold and returning to St. Louis was stirring up more than old memories. He was starting to question if he had really left Danny Brooks behind, or simply protected that "choirboy" part of himself inside the tough shell of a con artist. And maybe Danny, with the crack shot skills and the everything else Ellen had taught him, wasn't that much in need of protecting. After all, Danny had created a perfect fake ID and kept a stash of cash handy before Neal Caffrey had existed.

He was too tired to figure that one out tonight. Later on he'd piece together what his subconscious was trying to tell him. Like claiming Peter was his stepdad. Neal would be very interested to know why that had popped into his mind when talking to the desk clerk. Sometimes people would call him _son_ either as a figure of speech or as part of a con with an older partner, but Neal had never initiated it. He never called anyone _dad_.

Maybe his feverish brain was spinning up a new con, one to make Peter think of Neal as a son and then go easier on him.

Maybe he was reading too much into it. Maybe his brain had figured he needed a laugh. The look on Peter's face had been priceless.

"Henry?"

Mozzie wouldn't find it funny, though. If Mozz seriously thought Neal considered Peter a father figure, there would be a tirade about government brainwashing by patriarchal overlords.

"Henry?"

Oh, yeah, he was going by _Henry_ here. He was leaning back against the bed's headboard while Dr. Santos had been taking his temperature, checking his pulse and listening to him breathe. The poking and prodding seemed to have ended. Neal opened his eyes. "Hmmm?"

"I have something to bring down your fever," the doctor said, "but it will make you light-headed if you take it on an empty stomach. You need to eat something." He gestured toward the desk, where plates of food had appeared.

It was disconcerting to realize he had fallen asleep again, without intending to this time. He'd missed out on the call to room service and the delivery of the food. Neal couldn't suppress a yawn before saying, "Not really hungry."

"Nauseous?" the doctor asked.

"A little." Neal shrugged. "I'm not going to throw up or anything. Just not hungry, you know?"

The doctor proceeded to ask Neal about what he'd eaten that day: French fries in the afternoon, no lunch on the flight, and an omelet at the airport for breakfast. "Try the soup, at least," the doctor instructed. "You need to keep your strength up, and you haven't eaten enough recently to handle the pills."

"C'mon," said Peter, grabbing Neal's arm. He steadied the younger man as he got to his feet, and guided Neal to the desk chair.

Neal lifted the covers from 2 bowls of soup. He quickly pushed the chicken soup away and then pulled the tomato soup toward him. Feeling the pressure of 2 sets of eyes watching him, he started eating.

"You, too," the doctor told Peter. "I can't tell you how many times I've seen family members forget to take care of themselves when their loved ones are ill. I ordered this much food to make sure we'd find something to tempt your son, and to make sure you had something to eat, also. Dig in." He handed the agent a bottle of pills. "Once he's eaten at least half of that soup, he can have 2 of these. I'm going down to the restaurant to grab something to eat myself, and to give you some privacy. I'll be back in about an hour to check on Henry again."

"Thanks," Peter said, then closed the door behind the doctor. He returned to the desk to sit opposite Neal. "You ok?"

Neal put down his soup spoon and grabbed a cracker while he pondered that question. "I don't usually get sick. This is out of my normal realm of experience. Mostly I'm just weirdly tired. I think I'll be fine with a little more sleep."

"You're either lying, or you're very muddled by that fever you're running."

Neal frowned. He wouldn't lie, not to his dad. He ran a hand along his forehead. It did seem hot, but, "I don't feel muddled. How does muddled feel?"

Peter had started on the chicken soup. "Keep eating, kid."

Neal sighed and kept eating. He still didn't want to eat, but didn't have the energy to fight about it either.

Being called _kid_ had surprised him. Peter had been meticulous about always referring to Neal by his last name. He wasn't sure if _kid_ was an improvement. It could be a nickname, almost an endearment. Or moving away from names at all could be a distancing mechanism.

"Why not the chicken soup? That's what most people would have chosen."

Neal frowned slightly while he crumbled another cracker into the tomato soup. "Mom tried to make chicken soup from scratch once, and it gave us all salmonella. I've disliked it ever since. Even the smell bothers me. Luckily I can't smell anything tonight."

"Your poor Mom. That must have shaken her up."

"You have no idea. I was just 6, but I ate the most and got the sickest. I spent the night in the hospital, and Mom kept going on about being an unfit mother. Sometimes I think that's when she started –" Neal barely stopped himself from saying that after the food poisoning incident was when he noticed his mom was drinking too much. He couldn't believe he'd actually been talking about her. He _never_ did that. After he'd read up on WitSec, he'd promised himself he wouldn't talk about his family, to make sure he didn't accidently endanger the people he'd left behind.

Thankfully, Peter didn't ask Neal to complete his sentence. "Looks like you can have those pills now."

Neal was surprised to see that the bowl of soup was nearly empty. Talking about his mom, missing details while hanging out with an FBI agent – yeah, he was muddled. He could feel his pulse kick up in response. He never got drunk, never got high, never did anything that would leave him confused and rambling. He had to protect his family, and he had to be careful what he said to a person who wanted to arrest him. "Impaired," he said.

Surprisingly, Peter didn't have to ask what he meant. "Yes, the doctor confirmed you have a high fever, so you're officially impaired and anything you say is off limits. Nothing about your aversion to chicken soup will go in your FBI file."

Neal nodded, trusting Peter to protect him and his family. In the back of his mind he recognized that he rarely trusted anyone this much, and it was a little scary. He grabbed the bottle and shook out 2 pills. Suddenly he was eager to get rid of the fever and think clearly again. He didn't like being muddled.

After he swallowed the pills he wanted to turn up the thermostat. But Peter was in his shirt sleeves and didn't seem cold, so Neal concluded that he was chilled. He took a steamy shower that warmed him and also helped him breathe more easily. By the time he stepped out of the bathroom in black sweatpants and a black long-sleeved t-shirt, he felt a lot better.

Then he noticed it. "Peter, that's my phone."

The agent was holding Neal's phone and looking at the screen. "Yeah, you just missed a call. New York City area code."

Neal took the phone and glanced at the call list. It wasn't like Mozzie to call when he knew Neal was in the middle of a job. Distractions, untimely interruptions, broken concentration – none of these were a good idea when dealing with dangerous and potentially armed people. But that was Mozzie's number. Something was seriously wrong.


	10. Chapter 10 - Warning Signs

**Chapter 10: Warning Signs**

**St. Louis. Hotel room. Wednesday night. Early December, 2003.**

_Of course Caffrey's sleepwear would look like something a cat burglar could wear_, Peter Burke thought while the kid frowned at his phone. He could almost hear the wheels turning as Neal Caffrey weighed the need to return the call against the need to keep the FBI in the dark about something.

"I'm still impaired, right?"

Caffrey didn't look or sound impaired anymore, but it was unlikely the pills had made a difference that quickly. Peter guessed this was a combination of the shower, adrenaline, and a lifestyle that made it second nature to hide weakness. "Let's see." Peter stepped toward Caffrey and placed a palm on the kid's forehead. Caffrey looked so flummoxed that Peter ruffled his hair before pulling back and saying, "Still running a fever."

"I might be delirious."

"Possibly," Peter agreed. "Or maybe I'm just getting into practice for the father-son act we have to put on for the doctor shortly."

"That's, umm, that's a pretty convincing act."

Interesting that simply acting parental had such an impact on Caffrey. The young man who had seemed confident and self-assured only moments ago was staring at Peter in shock. Peter remembered his theory that Neal had grown up in foster care. Clearly his mother had been in the picture at least until he was 6. "Do your parents know what-"

"No!" Caffrey shut his eyes, took a deep breath and repeated, "No. Leave my family out of this. I'm the one you're after. They… They're off limits."

"Ok."

"I mean it. Not just until I'm not impaired. You have to leave them alone."

"I promise I won't use them to catch you."

"That's not good enough, Peter. No contacting them or tracking them down. Not for any reason. No one knows where they are. They don't know where I am. It has to stay that way."

"No one? You're in a dangerous line of work. What if something happens to you? Don't you think they'd have a right to know?"

"They may already think I'm dead. It's better that way."

That type of thinking baffled Peter and he wanted to follow up with more questions, but the kid was clearly distressed. He should wait to try the Caffrey Conversation from another angle. "You need to return that call?"

"Yeah." Caffrey walked over to the windows, getting some distance from Peter and seeking a stronger signal for his cell phone. He dialed, waited for an answer and said, "It's me." After a pause, he named the hotel where they were staying and added, "You were right about Roland. He doesn't trust strangers." Caffrey paced as he listened to the person on the other side of the call. "Yeah, I figured that one out already… No, I didn't tell Roland, and you can't, either. Roland would kill him… I know because Roland took a few shots at my car as I was leaving…. Yeah, that was after he decided I was an undercover agent… Well, when I saw what was going on, I may have led him to believe that I wasn't exactly on his side, but what else was I going to do after you warned me he had a violent temper? It was either distract Roland myself, or let him discover Peter was FBI." Caffrey abruptly stopped pacing and swayed slightly.

Peter strode over and pushed Caffrey down onto one of the beds, saying, "Sit down before you fall down." It was cold near the windows, and Peter saw the kid was shaking.

"My roommate," Caffrey said. "Otherwise known as the client… No. I mean, yes. I mean, a doctor gave me something for the fever and it was absolutely not a truth serum or mind control drug… Your safe house is still safe, but you should stop using this number…"

Peter grabbed one of the plush robes from the closet and draped it over Caffrey's shoulders.

"It's a long story, can you just… No I'm not going to escape through the window… Because we're 7 stories up, it's raining, and apparently I'm running a serious fever… Yes, I knew my roommate was a Fed, but I haven't done anything illegal and I'm not under arrest. I'm free to leave whenever I want… I'm sure she would freak out if she knew, but since no one can – Wait. You know where she is, don't you?" He ran his free hand through his hair. "Don't worry her. I mean it. I've got this."

There was a knock at the door, and Peter couldn't tell if Caffrey had noticed. "Wrap it up. The doctor's back."

"I've got to go. Trust me on this. I don't have time to explain, but I need to do this. Just don't call Roland, ok?" Caffrey ended the call as Peter opened the door.

Dr. Santos asked his patient some questions, took his temperature again, and then handed Peter more pills and a liquid night-time cold medicine that would knock someone out for 8 hours. "A good night's rest will make a big difference in how he feels. But this drug leaves people disoriented. Make sure he doesn't take too much. Forgetting you've taken it already and overdosing is fairly common, and I wouldn't leave the bottle if you weren't here to administer it. I'll stop by again in the morning. Check his temperature every few hours and have the front desk call me if you have concerns about his condition. If his fever goes any higher you should consider taking him to a hospital."

"No hospitals," was the first thing Caffrey said after Peter shut the door behind the doctor.

"Why not?" Peter asked.

"I sort of wandered out of a hospital in St. Louis a few years back. If a Neal Caffrey is checked in again they may…" He shook his head. "It could cause a lot of needless trouble. How about we both get out of here and get on a flight back to New York? Right now."

"Not going to happen," Peter said. "You shouldn't be traveling until you're feeling better, and I need to finish things up with Villiers first."

"It's too risky, Peter. The reason my friend called was to tell me Philip Townsend has been arrested. I don't think he'll tell Roland, but word spreads quickly in this business. If Roland finds out you were lying about being the client –"

"Your friend," Peter interrupted, "who wanted to know if you were given a truth serum or some mind-controlling substance. He sounds as paranoid as Villiers. Why is someone as bright and talented as you are wasting your time with these characters? You must have had other options!"

Caffrey studied Peter a moment before answering. "There weren't many options, at least not that I could see. I'm good at what I do, and the longer I follow the path I'm on, the fewer chances I have of doing anything else."

"But there's still a chance."

"For some reason, I've arranged to be roommates with an FBI agent who's frustrated with my recent life choices. If you think there's another option for me, here's your chance to offer it."

It was the perfect opening for the Caffrey Conversation, but Peter had to say, "It will have to wait until you're not impaired and I'm done with Villiers. I need to leave in the next few minutes."

"Take me with you. Let me show you what I can do."

"Oh, I got a really good idea of what you can do back at the bar. Bringing you along tonight would be a disaster, now that Villiers thinks you're a Fed and his friend Red thinks you work for the competition."

"They'd never know I was there. I'd stay in the background and help out when you need it."

"I'm not going to need help. This isn't my first undercover op, you know. I know what I'm doing, and I already have back-up."

"But –"

"I'm going to mention the rumors of my arrest first thing, telling them it was my idea, to give me an alibi for tonight."

"That's not a good alibi."

"Yeah, well Townsend is very good at accounting, but not an expert at crime. They'll expect him to make mistakes."

"That's really good, Peter." Caffrey smiled widely. "I could learn a lot from you."

"I'm sure you could learn a lot about FBI tactics and procedures, but not until we have an official working arrangement. Tonight, you're going to learn to follow orders. You stay here, and stay out of trouble. You will have no contact with Villiers, or with that friend who called you, or with anyone else even remotely connected to this job. Is that understood?"

"Peter, I could –"

"No, Caffrey. You will stay here. On the remote chance that I decide I need your help I will call you at the number for this room. If you show me you can follow the orders of an FBI agent, then we'll talk about your options. That's the deal. Take it or leave it. It's your choice."

Silence.

"We can talk about it when I get back. Whatever you decide, I'm grateful for what you did back at the bar to protect my cover. Let's get you some of that cold medicine and I'll get out of here."

"I can't be waiting by the phone for your distress call if I'm drugged. I'll take it when you get back."

"Then we have a deal?"

Caffrey rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I'll stay out of trouble if you will." Before Peter could protest, Caffrey continued, "You know what they say about the fight or flight response. You've figured out my instinct is to escape, and I'm very good at it. Roland will fight, and his go-to weapon is his gun. He's going to start shooting as soon as he realizes he's in a trap. He won't care if he gets shot or killed in the process, because he'll be determined to take down as many of his enemies as he can. You won't be able to reason with him, so you and your back-up need to be ready to take cover."

"You already sound like a senior agent giving instructions to his team before a take-down. This could definitely be interesting." Peter grabbed his coat and was half-way to the door when a thought stopped him. He turned back toward Caffrey. "You know this isn't a trap, right? Don't take it into your head that you need to escape tonight. After we have a chance to talk, you're free to go whether or not you're interested in what the FBI can offer you. I can give you some time to think it over, if that's what you need. But I can't make you an offer unless you're here to discuss it."

"I won't run, Peter."


	11. Chapter 11 - Reaching Out

AN: Serious spoilers for the finale of season 3 and the first half of season 4. If you don't know who Ellen Parker is, read at your own risk.

**Chapter 11: Reaching Out **

**St. Louis. Hotel room. Wednesday night. Early December, 2003.**

It took only 20 minutes for Neal Caffrey to run out of patience. Sitting in a fake municipal van during a job for the FBI sounded boring, but at least they could see or hear what was going on. Sitting in a hotel room with no information was unbearable. It took a couple of minutes to find where Peter had hidden Neal's shoes – hiding them had been clever, Neal had to admit. He had the shoes on and was pulling on a jacket when the room's phone rang.

He ran across the room to answer. "Yeah?"

"Why do you sound out of breath?"

"I have a cold. I can't breathe. I'm going stir crazy here, Peter. What's going on?"

"I'm at the location where we were supposed to meet. Villiers' RV and motorcycle are here, but not the SUV. And not the crew. I'm going to the museum next, unless you have a better idea."

Neal looked out the hotel room's window, but he wasn't paying attention to the Arch. He was viewing a mental map of the city, envisioning where Peter was relative to the hotel, the museum and the airport. "Why did they invite Philip Townsend to participate in this job?"

"There had been a delay. He wanted something more to make up for it. They told him there wasn't time to forge more items, but said he could participate."

"He doesn't bring any relevant skills to the table?"

"No. But it's a 4-person job. With you out of the picture, they needed me to be the look-out and driver."

"It's a 3-man job," Neal said. "Roland is known for building redundancies into his plans. Wanda can handle security, look-out and driver, if needed. Roland can double for my intended role. "

"They only person they can't replace is the forger."

"And the pilot. Peter, that's our angle. I was a last-minute replacement, and the person I replaced could fly a plane. That means they can't get the goods back to New York without Villiers' pilot. Skip the museum and go to the airport."

"Villiers has a private plane?"

"That's how I got here."

"And he never intended to let Townsend in on the job. Townsend was a liability, so they gave me the wrong time. They're at the museum, or even on their way to the airport already. I can make sure the FAA doesn't let that plane take off, but I can't be sure I'll catch Villiers with the stolen goods. Was he planning to be on the plane?"

"Not originally. I don't know who he'll have escort the items back to New York now that I'm out of the picture." Neal sat down on the bed and pulled out the phone book, thumbing through the airport numbers. "I can buy you some time by delaying the pilot."

"We can't risk Villiers seeing you. It would tip him off. You're staying at the hotel, Caffrey."

"I can do this over the phone."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Peter tried not to worry about what Caffrey had in mind. Hopefully it was legal, and something that would make sense to someone who wasn't running a fever. Meanwhile, Peter had calls of his own to make. First he contacted the Chicago office of the Bureau, having them look into Villiers' plane. They'd identify the plane and coordinate with the St. Louis airport to make sure the tower didn't let it take off. Or if they were too late for that, they would track where the plane went. Then he called his St. Louis PD contact to warn him they would try to take down Villiers at the airport instead of the museum. The local contact had advice about where to park in the airport to be near the private planes while still taking Villiers by surprise.

When Peter arrived at the hanger where Villiers' plane was waiting, he was pleased to see Villiers, Red and Miles were there with crates that must contain the stolen items from the museum. An airport employee was explaining a local doctor had called to say the last passenger of the plane had a serious virus. The pilot had been placed in quarantine for the next 24 hours, and the plane needed to be disinfected before anyone could enter it. Villiers was seething with anger, and Red was on her phone, looking for another pilot. As soon as the airport employee was out of the way, Peter and the police moved in to make the arrest.

Caffrey had been right to warn of a shoot-out. Villiers went for his gun and took a couple of shots at them before a police officer hit the man in the shoulder. With an ambulance on the way for Villiers and his accomplices in cuffs, Peter called the hotel room once more. "We got them," he said when Caffrey answered.

"At the airport?"

"Yes, trying to find another pilot. Good job delaying them."

"We make a good team."

"Maybe," Peter said. "It's going to be at least another hour to wrap things up here. Go ahead and take those cold meds. Note the time on a sheet of paper by the bottle, to remind yourself you've already taken it. We don't want you overdosing. I'll get back there as soon as I can."

"You are such a dad," Caffrey said, and then hung up before Peter could think of a retort.

Since Peter and El had decided against having children, Peter had never thought about what a son of his own would be like. Now he told himself the pride he felt was what he'd experience when any member of his team did a good job. It was disconcerting enough to think of Caffrey as a team member. No way would a kid of Peter's be such a smart aleck. Smart, yes, but respectful. But in the back of his mind, Peter could imagine an alternate version of himself trying not to laugh at the antics of a hyper-intelligent kid with El's black hair and blue eyes, saying, "He gets that from his mother."

Neal Burke. Peter shuddered at the thought; his alternate self would have had gray hair by now if he'd had the task of raising that rascal.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

It was almost 1am. Too late to call. He knew he shouldn't try to contact her. But he shouldn't have come back to St. Louis, either. Shouldn't have traveled with a raging fever. The truth was, Neal specialized in doing things he shouldn't do.

He opened the phone book to the yellow pages, and found the pharmacies. The one he was looking for was still in business, with a large ad. They used to run annoying commercials during late-night television, touting the fact that they were open 24 hours. And now they delivered, too. Perfect. Neal put the phone book back on the ledge beneath the night stand, still open to the ad. He dialed, careful to transpose the last 2 digits of the phone number. At least once a week, Ellen had gotten misdialed calls for the pharmacy. If the Marshals were checking up on her calls for suspicious activity, it should just look like another wrong number.

"Hello?"

Neal almost gasped at the shock of hearing her voice. Until this moment, he hadn't really admitted to himself how much he missed her. "Ellen, does the pharmacy really deliver all night?"

"Oh my God. Neal?" She paused. "Did you settle on _Neal_ or pick something else?"

Sometimes he had so many aliases, it didn't feel like he had or even needed a real name. It had been tempting to stick with Nick Halden. But in the end, "I'm Neal Caffrey."

"According to the caller ID you're in St. Louis?"

"Yeah, I drove by and saw your truck. I hadn't planned to come back again. It's just for a few days." He hardly even knew what he was saying. "I just… I needed to hear your voice again."

"I'm so glad. But we can't talk long. That will be suspicious for a wrong number."

"I know. Tell the Marshals it was a drunk and you couldn't convince him he had the wrong number."

"Please tell me you haven't started drinking."

Neal winced. "No. I've just got a bad cold, and I'm about to take one of those medicines that will leave me loopy the rest of the night. I'm not… I'm not like mom." It took a surprising amount of courage to admit, "I noticed she wasn't at the house anymore. Is she… Is she ok?" _Is she alive?_

"The Marshals wanted both of us to move. She did. I hear from her about once a year. She sounds fine. She had one more stint of rehab after you left and says she hasn't had a drink in over 5 years. I wanted to stay here, in case you changed your mind. You wouldn't have had any other way to find us."

"I'm sorry about the way I left that night, about not sticking around to say goodbye in person. I just…" Neal's reputed silver tongue failed him. There were no words adequate to explain how he'd felt that night, or what Ellen meant to him.

"We have to keep this short, Neal. I've given some thought to how we could keep in touch, in case you ever got in contact. Can you stay in town for the weekend?"

"Yeah." Neal didn't even have to think about it. He'd agree to anything in order to stay in touch with Ellen.

"There's a Christmas concert at my church Sunday night. Go, and check my box. Number 267. I'll leave a pager there for you, and a number of a pager I'll keep on hand. Then we'll have a way to contact each other that the Marshals don't know about."

"I'll be there. But I might not be able to keep a pager on me all the time."

"Me neither. The Marshals would notice. But just check it once in a while."

"I will." The conversation was taking a toll on Neal. He suppressed a coughing jag to say, "I've been travelling a lot, but I live in New York City now."

"I'll keep that in mind when the Marshals start pressuring me again to move. They might let me have a say in my location if they think it will convince me to leave. Goodbye, Neal. Thanks for calling."

"Goodbye." He grabbed for the water as soon as he hung up. And if his throat felt constricted, he told himself it was just the cold. He was a loner, now. He didn't need anyone, didn't miss having a family. The only reason he called Peter _dad_ was as a joke, not to fill a void in his life.

He grabbed a pad of paper, noting the time as Peter had requested, but subtracted a few minutes. Just in case anyone checked, they would think he had taken the medicine and was feeling the effects before he mis-dialed a random woman. On another sheet of paper he wrote, "Box 267, Sunday night" in case the meds made him forget parts of his conversation with Ellen, and then he started folding.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Ellen Parker made a cup of tea, something soothing. She expected the Marshals to drop by in the morning, and needed to be well-rested. She didn't want to give the impression of being troubled by the late-night call. In fact, she set the timer on her microwave for 15 minutes, to remind herself to turn out the lights and go back to bed soon. In case anyone was watching, they wouldn't see her sitting up and brooding.

Over the years she had practiced what she would say if Neal called. She thought she had been ready for anything. But the emotions had overwhelmed her at the sound of his voice, and she had wandered off script. As she replayed the conversation, she already had regrets.

She had meant to apologize for giving him too much information too quickly on his 18th birthday. It had been such a relief to tell him the truth, that she had just blurted it all out. She knew the moment he drove away that she should have gone more slowly, building up to his father's alleged crimes. Instead she had knocked down the foundation of his world in a matter of minutes, giving him nothing to replace it. Had he ever found a new foundation?

Had he ever found closure? That's what she had meant to ask. Did he have questions she could have answered in the few minutes they had to talk? Did he need to know anything more about his father and the events that put them into Witsec?

She could kick herself for asking him about drinking, or for mentioning his mother's last stint in rehab. She knew where Neal's mind would go. Within a day he'd decide it was all his fault. He'd think his running away had triggered an increase in drinking that led to the need for rehab. And he'd think his being away was the reason she'd remained sober, implying that it was his presence that had prevented her sobriety in the years before he left. The truth was that on his birthday, his mother had already been on the waiting list for a clinic that had a different approach than the places she'd gone before. They had a fantastic reputation, and by all accounts they had done a great job for her.

All the previous times, Neal had stayed with Ellen while his mom was in rehab. He was a handful, but she had cherished every moment of being his foster mother. But the last time… After Neal ran away, the Marshals decided it would be easiest to say Danny Brooks had died in the lake. While Neal's mom was in that last round of rehab, Ellen had to plan and attend Danny's funeral. More than anything, she had wanted to use her training and experience as a cop to track down the runaway, to bring him home and to help him make his peace with the truth about his dad. But the Marshals refused. Even when their search failed, they weren't about to risk a protected witness calling attention to herself in the search for Neal. Her only recourse had been to refuse to leave St. Louis, on the slim hope that someday he might come home.

The timer beeped. Ellen turned off the lights and went back to bed.

AN: I don't know of a pharmacy in St. Louis (or anywhere else) that delivers, but it doesn't seem like too big of a leap from grocery stores that deliver.


	12. Chapter 12 - Dante's Inferno

AN: This is my take on how Mozzie might have gotten the name Dante (how he introduces himself to Peter in Season 1)

**Chapter 12: Dante's Inferno**

**St. Louis. Hotel room. Thursday morning. Early December, 2003.**

It was almost 2:30am when Peter Burke returned to the hotel room. He tried to be quiet, but probably didn't need to bother. Neal Caffrey was in bed, asleep. The note on the nightstand said he'd taken the cold medicine at quarter to 1. As much as Peter itched to tuck away that note as a handwriting sample for future reference, he left it alone. He double-checked that the medicine bottle's seal had been broken, and the appropriate dosage was missing.

He missed talking to Elizabeth. No matter how many times he told her not to wait up, she always stayed awake until he got home from a planned confrontation with the bad guys. This time he'd texted her as soon as they had Villiers in cuffs, to let her know the op was over and he was safe.

He set the alarm clock and was about to slip into bed himself when he remembered the doctor's orders. Peter placed a hand on his roommate's forehead again, and chuckled when the kid grumbled in his sleep. Still running a temperature, but lower than last time he'd checked.

"No," he protested when Peter pulled his hand away.

"What?" Peter asked, not sure if the kid was dreaming or really reacting to his presence.

"Cold." He rolled over onto his side and curled into himself for warmth. "It's too cold."

Peter turned on a lamp, and with the added light he could see his roommate was shivering. He found an extra blanket in the closet and placed it over the young man. Soon the shivering stopped and Neal seemed to relax into a deep sleep.

Thinking that he could finally get some sleep himself, Peter jumped when the phone the con man had left on the desk started to vibrate. Neal seemed completely out of it, not making a move or a sound in response. Looking at the display, Peter recognized the New York number of the person who had called before Peter left to arrest Villiers. The phone indicated that the caller had tried earlier and gone unanswered.

Who was this person who had learned of Townsend's arrest? Why had he asked if Neal had been given any mind-controlling substances?

Impulsiveness was Neal's trait, not Peter's. But an FBI agent learned that sometimes you had mere seconds to make major decisions in a case. The caller had some sort of working relationship with Neal, and Peter had the impression they had known each other for a while. This was a rare opportunity to get insight into Neal's life from the perspective of what Peter could only call _the competition_. It could make a difference in the Caffrey Conversation, which seemed tantalizingly close now. Peter picked up the phone and took the call, going on the offensive. "We need to talk about Neal."

"Who is this?" It was a man's voice, older than Neal, closer to Peter's age.

"Peter Burke."

"Special Agent Peter Burke, of the FBI?"

"That's right."

"I think I have the wrong number."

"No, you don't. You have Neal's number, and I have Neal."

"What have you done with him? I swear, if he's in one of your secret government labs –"

"The FBI doesn't have secret government labs."

"Oh, right. And next you're going to tell me that the U.S. Marshals weren't established to guard alien prisoners who crash landed here over the years. Or that the supposed moon landing wasn't a cover for a visit by more aliens who were the real occupants of what we're told was the returning capsule. "

"No, I'm not going to tell you any of those things," Peter said, "because they have nothing to do with Neal. And I haven't done anything to him."

"So give him the phone and let me talk to him."

"He can't talk to you now. Not because of anything I've done," Peter interjected quickly because he could tell the caller was about to protest. "He had a high fever, which neither the government nor I were behind, and now he's taken a prescription-strength night-time cold medicine. He's out like a light, and will be for hours. It's just you and me. Let's talk about Neal. What exactly do you think his future is, if he keeps up his current life?"

"Fame, fortune, and a blissful retirement."

"He's 24. That sounds like the dream of someone a bit older."

"Well, he'll get older. And he likes his life. He's having fun, exercising his brain, seeing the world and acquiring excellent taste in wine. It's the ideal lifestyle."

"Since he's probably either going to land in prison or get killed in some overly risky scheme, I have to disagree. But he can do all of what you described, legally."

"Note my instant boredom with this conversation."

Peter sighed. "Listen, Dante –"

"Why are you calling me _Dante_?"

"Because I think you're going to lead Neal into some very bad places."

"Like the circles of hell in _The Inferno_. Maybe you aren't completely boring, Suit. But Dante wrote about paradise, too."

"I'm interested in the here and now. Neal has a chance right now that might never come to him again."

"A chance to be boring?" Dante asked.

"How about a chance to be happy?" Peter countered.

"He's happy now. He has everything he could want."

"I don't think so. He's searching for something. I don't know what it is. In fact, he might not even know what it is. But there's something missing in his life. Continuing to do what he's already doing isn't going to fix things. He knows he has to make a change, and I can help him."

"And I'm supposed to believe you're being benevolent here? There's more to this story. What do you gain from making Neal change into someone else?"

"Not into someone else, but into the person he could be. And who I think he wants to be. Are you saying you don't want him to have the chance to meet his full potential?"

"I don't want him to turn into a government-approved, mindless drone. And you didn't answer my question. What do you gain from this?"

Peter paused. He didn't think Dante would like or understand the truth, but he also thought the man would know if Peter lied or evaded on this issue. "It's about justice. That's what I want."

"I knew it! You want to Neal to turn himself in for his _alleged_ crimes, while you get the credit for bringing him to justice."

"Justice isn't only about making wrong-doers pay. It's about the victims, too. That's why I work in white collar crimes, rather than solving violent crimes. In my job I can help restore a balance, help the victims regain what they lost. I can make things right again."

"You want Neal to lead you to a cache of money or stolen items so you can return it to his supposed victims!" Dante accused.

"No. That is, yes, I would like that. But that's not what I meant. What I'm trying to say is that somewhere along the line, an opportunity was stolen or lost. I want to restore the balance, to give Neal that opportunity back again."

"So… You're saying Neal is a victim?"

"You could say that society is the victim when a bright, talented person like Neal doesn't get the opportunity to become a contributing member. We're all undermined when that opportunity is stolen from us. If I can make that right, we all benefit."

"Really," Dante said drily.

"You're right. That does sound like something from a lecture at Quantico. It's just…" Peter stopped staring out at St. Louis and turned around to look at Neal. Not _Caffrey_ of the FBI case file. Not a suspect Peter had been investigating. But _Neal_, a person who had surprised Peter by being both helpful and fun to work with. He was annoying, and amusing, and smart. He was smart enough to know he was going to ruin his life if he didn't change its direction soon. Hopefully Neal wanted the Caffrey Conversation as much as Peter did.

"Suit, are you still there? Wait. You're drawing out the call because you're tracking my location, aren't you? Well, good luck with that, because I never use a phone unless I know I can defeat any attempt to track it. Right now your government lackeys are pinpointing a cell tower somewhere in Eastern Europe."

"You know, we don't randomly track innocent people. But maybe you're feeling guilty about something. Do you have something you'd like to get off your chest?" Peter chuckled into the silence. "Alright. It's late, and even at the top of my game I'm not great at explaining this kind of thing. But I think when people are doing what they're meant to do, that's when they're happiest. And then the people around them, the people who matter, should be happy for them. And you're probably right that he's having fun with his life as it is now, but having fun in the short term isn't the same as being happy in the long term. That's where I think you and I diverge. You're offering fun, and I'm trying to offer fulfillment."

"Oh, I get it. You're another wannabe father figure."


	13. Chapter 13 - Father Figures

**Chapter 13: Father Figures**

**St. Louis. Hotel room. Thursday morning. Early December, 2003.**

Peter Burke held Neal Caffrey's cell phone, listening to the man who had called from a New York number. With Neal deeply asleep from the cold meds, Peter had grasped the opportunity to talk to someone who could shed light onto Neal's life as a criminal. Peter could tell from the man's questions and tone that he was more than a boss or a business partner. _Dante_, as Peter was calling the man,thought of himself as Neal's friend.

"I've seen it happen before," the man was saying, "but it's always been mentors, or a mark. They meet Neal, pick up on that young, lost, vulnerable vibe, and they want to take him under their wing. I'm sure, now that he's sick, it's even more tempting. For you, that means turning him into a clone of yourself, a son."

"That's not –" Peter protested, but couldn't stop Dante.

"What you have to keep in mind is that he doesn't _want_ a father figure. He avoids them like the plague. Even when it would be convenient, he'll never introduce a partner as his father or call a mark _Dad_ to play up that angle. Don't take it personally. Just walk away, cut your losses, and let Neal be his own person."

"He's already introduced me as his father."

Dante was silent.

"He just did it as a joke," Peter added, already regretting that he had mentioned it. For some reason he felt like he had betrayed an intimate secret. "He said it to see my reaction."

"He doesn't joke about that."

"Maybe not normally, but he was running a really high fever. And actually he called me his stepfather, not his real dad."

"That's even worse."

"How could that be worse?"

"It means he went to the effort to make it seem real. You're too young to be his real dad, so if he wants you as a father he has to explain how you could fit into his life in that role. This is serious."

"I'm sure it's nothing." Honestly, though, Peter was stunned, and maybe a little flattered. Unless this was some kind of con. For all Peter knew, Neal called every older male _Dad_, and then his partner followed with a tale to make the mark feel special.

"Don't take advantage of him."

"Hey, I'm the FBI agent here. I'm the _good_ guy. I don't take advantage of people."

"You're a suit. That's what you do. It's as natural to you as breathing. I'm gonna figure this out. Just don't _do_ anything. And don't make Neal do something he's going to regret." Dante abruptly ended the call.

Peter placed the phone down on the desk and looked over at Neal, who hadn't moved since Peter had added the extra blanket. He did look young and vulnerable.

Putting that blanket on the bed hadn't meant anything. It was something any good roommate would do. It wasn't a paternal action, per se.

Dr. Santos never questioned that they were father and stepson. Or maybe he was too professional to comment on the relationships between people he met at the hotel.

The fact that Neal had the same coloring as Elizabeth, that he resembled what a son of Peter's and El's might have looked like… that was a coincidence.

And it was irrelevant. Neal could have been twice Peter's age, and it would be equally satisfying to help him get on the straight and narrow. It had nothing to do with a desire to be a father figure.

Determined not to let his mind continue circling around an idea planted by a likely felon and con artist, Peter finally turned out the lights and got some sleep.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

A morning person at heart, Peter couldn't sleep past 8am despite the late night he'd had. He got up and got dressed, as his roommate slumbered on. At some point in the night Neal had rolled over onto his back, sprawled across the bed with the extra blanket kicked off. Other than his slightly congested breathing, he didn't make a sound.

Peter called room service for breakfast, and then called his wife. "Hey, hon. Do you have a minute?"

"Barely," Elizabeth said. "We have clients arriving any moment to talk about holding a party at the gallery."

"This is, what, the 4th time the gallery has turned over a party to you? At this rate you could go into event planning as a second career."

"That's not a bad idea, actually. But that's something to discuss when you're home. When do you get back to New York?"

"Soon, I hope. The doctor will be stopping by in about an hour to check on Neal again. If he's well enough to be left alone, I could catch an afternoon flight."

"'Well enough to be left alone'? I didn't realize it was that serious."

Peter glanced at the items on the night stand. He really wanted to ask Neal what the origami swan was about. "It's more a matter of the meds leaving him too loopy to be unsupervised. Or so the doctor said. Fortunately he's mostly been sleeping."

"And Nurse Burke is in charge?" Elizabeth giggled. "I wish I could see that."

"I'll have you know I'm a very good nurse. I've fetched blankets, arranged for meals, and gotten pretty good at my assigned task of checking for a fever. Fortunately it's gone down each time." Peter walked over to the bed, realizing he hadn't checked this morning. "Ah, hell. It went up again."

"I'd better let you get back to your patient, then."

"El?" Peter walked back to the window, where he didn't have to look at Neal as he confessed, "He… He introduced me as his dad. Stepdad. The hotel staff and doctor believed him. I'm not sure what to do with that. If he really views me that way should I use it, to persuade him to change his ways?"

"Oh, hon. Is there… I don't know… Is there a policy about things like that?"

"I think I'm on my own with this one."

"And my clients are here. I'll call you back when they leave. I know you'll do the right thing, though. Love you, honey."

"Love you, hon," Peter responded.

When breakfast had arrived, Peter finally shook Neal awake. His pseudo-son was still out of it from the meds, but at least his appetite had returned. Unfortunately, the coughing and sniffling had also returned. "Is there any law against taking night-time cold medicine during the day?" Neal asked as he finished eating. "Because I felt much better after that stuff kicked in. I'd give a lot to be able to breathe again."

Peter picked up the bottle of bright-blue liquid medicine to see if there were any warnings about how much a person should take in one day. "What exactly would you be willing to give? Maybe a confession?"

Elbows propped on the desk they used as a breakfast table, Neal rubbed his temples and yawned. "I'll confess that I have a killer headache. Will that do?"

"Not exactly what I had in mind." Peter placed the bottle back on the nightstand, next to the swan. "How about explaining the origami?"

"Not my best effort, but I wanted a reminder…" Neal paused for another round of coughing.

"A reminder of what?"

Neal started to answer, but that kicked off more coughing.

"Need some water?"

Giving up on speaking, Neal simply nodded.

When Peter returned with a glass of water, Neal looked pitifully grateful, and Peter gave up asking any more questions. After a couple of minutes, Peter couldn't take it anymore. "Just looking at you is making me feel miserable. Go back to bed."

"Ok." Neal meandered back to his bed and propped the pillows up against the headboard to sit up against them. "What did the bottle say?"

"It should be safe to take another dose after the doctor checks you out."

Neal nodded and closed his eyes until Dr. Santos arrived a few minutes later. He subjected quietly to all of the doctor's poking and questioning, much to Peter's consternation. The person Peter had been chasing the last few months was high-energy and low-compliance. Finally, Peter gave up pretending to look out the window and said, "His fever went back up again."

"I noticed," the doctor replied calmly.

"He's not usually this quiet."

"There's no reason to be concerned. He's young and in good health, other than this virus. What's going around this year is a nasty version. Fighting it off is exhausting, but your son will be fine." The doctor put away his stethoscope. "I'd recommend staying here another 24 hours, if you can. By then he'll be in better shape to fly. In his current state, the changes in air pressure would be extremely uncomfortable. I had another patient describe it as having her ear canals squeezed shut and then twisted."

"Ouch," said Peter automatically. "Does he need –" A knock on the door interrupted him. "Let me get that."

Two people were at the door. Both in their early 40s, they wore suits and white shirts, and looked like they worked for the government. The man was a tall blond who looked like his ancestors came from Scandinavia. The woman was African-American and a couple of inches taller than Peter's wife. She showed a badge. "Marcy Weaver and Simon Preston. US Marshals. Are you Henry Winslow?"

Shaking his head, Peter stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him. "I'm Special Agent Peter Burke, FBI. Henry Winslow is a CI. What do you want with him?"

"Can we see some ID?" Weaver asked.

Peter opened his jacket slowly, so they wouldn't think he was going for a gun, and handed his badge over. Preston eyed it carefully and handed it back before asking, "Is Winslow inside?"

"Yes, with a doctor."

"Were you both here this morning, around 1am?" asked Weaver.

"I was at the airport with St. Louis PD, arresting a group of people who had just robbed a local museum. Winslow was here, too sick to take part in the arrest."

"Are you sure he was sick?"

"Yes, I'm sure," Peter said. Before Weaver could continue her questioning, Peter shook his head. "No, I'll answer your questions after you tell me what's going on." Met with silence, Peter said, "We're on the same side. But we're talking about a CI. Having 3 law enforcement officials in the room is going to make him nervous on a good day, and today he's sick on top of everything else. I know him better than you do. Just tell me what you're after, and I can help you get your answers as quickly and painlessly as possible."

Weaver and Preston looked at each other. Weaver nodded, and Preston said, "Around 1am, a woman we monitor received a call from this room. She says it was a wrong number, but the conversation went on longer than normal for a misdial. We need to check out who Henry Winslow is, and why he called her number."

"He made a few calls for me, to the airport."

"We saw those on the list of calls from this room. Those were closer to midnight. And about an hour later a call was placed to this room, from a cell phone."

"That would have been me. I called to let him know the action was over and he should get some sleep."

"And then one more call was made from this room. Do you know anything about that?" Weaver asked. When Peter shook his head, she continued, "Then we need to talk to your CI."

Peter opened the door to the room. Dr. Santos was stepping out of the bathroom with a damp washcloth in his hands. "I thought this would make Henry more comfortable, since his temperature is up again. I gave him another dose of medicine, so he should be feeling better soon."

"Thanks, doctor," Peter answered, following the man back toward Neal. "Henry, there are a couple of people here to talk to you about a phone call you made last night. They're US Marshals."

Neal, who was still leaning against the headboard, pushed away the covers and got out of bed.

"What the –" Peter began, stepping forward with the instinct to stop a fleeing suspect, but then he heard a choking sound, and pushed the Marshals out of the way while Neal ran into the bathroom followed by Dr. Santos. Peter and the Marshals waited by the beds, listening uncomfortably to the sound of retching.

"Can you grab a clean shirt for him?" the doctor asked over the sound of the toilet flushing. Peter opened Neal's bag, but saw only dress shirts. Instead he grabbed a white T-shirt that El had packed for him, and brought it to the entrance of the bathroom. Neal stood at the sink, washing his face, his black shirt on the floor. The doctor was right about being in good health; Neal clearly stayed in shape. Peter should check to see if any of Neal's aliases had gym memberships. But moments later, in a T-shirt a size too large for him, shaky and pale as a ghost, Neal looked like a kid who needed someone to look out for him.

The doctor hovered while Neal walked out and sat on the foot of the bed. Neal looked up at Peter, but his eyes didn't seem entirely focused as he said, "This isn't my shirt."

"No, it isn't," Peter agreed. "But I need you to concentrate for a minute. Who did you call last night, around 1am? That was shortly after I called you to say we had arrested Villiers."

Neal gestured vaguely in the direction of the night stand. "Big ad. They deliver." His voice was hoarse, making a person want to keep the conversation brief in case he lost his voice completely.

Preston grabbed the phone book, which was folded open to the Pharmacy section. He nodded to Weaver and then asked, "Why would you have called a drug store last night?"

"Cough drops." Neal rubbed his face.

"Why did you stay on the line so long? It was a wrong number, and she said she couldn't help you."

"Wrong number? That's…" Neal trailed off, sounding dazed. "She sounded nice. Who are you?"

Preston squatted down, closer to Neal's level. "I'm Simon. Why didn't you end the call when she said you had the wrong number?" Preston didn't sound like he was interrogating someone. He sounded and looked concerned for Neal, as did Dr. Santos. Of course a doctor was supposed to be concerned about his patients, but Preston was another matter. Peter couldn't help thinking back to Dante's words about wannabe father figures. Was Neal purposely manipulating Preston right now?

"Isn't it strange to say a number is wrong?" Neal asked. "It's the right number for someone." He closed his eyes and groaned. "Where's Peter?"

Peter stepped beside Preston. "I'm right here. What do you need?"

Neal squinted at him. "Peter?"

"Yeah?"

"I feel really weird."

He took a step back. "Are you going to throw up again?"

"No. Something's wrong. I can't…" Neal swayed, and both Preston and Dr. Santos reached out to steady him, grabbing his shoulders. "Peter…" Before Neal could finish that thought, his eyes rolled back and he passed out.


	14. Chapter 14 - Overdose

**Chapter 14: Overdose**

**St. Louis. Hotel room. Thursday morning. Early December, 2003.**

"What happened?" Peter Burke asked Dr. Santos. "You said he'd be fine."

Dr. Santos and US Marshal Simon Preston had an unconscious Neal Caffrey by the arms, dragging him up from where he had been sitting, to be sprawled fully on the bed. Standing next to the night stand, the doctor picked up the bottle of bright blue liquid prescription-strength cold medicine and swore. "I gave him a dose of this while you were in the hall. But he must have taken 2 more doses."

"Did he overdose on purpose?" US Marshal Marcy Weaver asked.

"He was still somewhat under the influence of the dosage he took last night, and a common side effect is confusion. It's not unusual for patients to forget they have just taken it, and then take it again. Fortunately an overdose tends to trigger vomiting, so he got rid of most of it before it got into his system. I just don't know how I missed seeing him taking it. I barely turned my back on him."

"He's an expert in misdirection and sleight-of-hand," Peter offered, recalling how smoothly Neal had taken his car keys. "Do we need to get him to a hospital?"

"No," the doctor said, as he checked Neal's pulse and breathing. "His vital signs are strong. He should regain consciousness in about half an hour."

Weaver checked her watch, clearly not wanting to wait around that long. "And he had taken this same medication last night?"

Peter nodded. "Shortly before he misdialed the drug store."

She frowned. "Can we see his ID?" Peter went through Neal's wallet and pulled out the Henry Winslow driver's license, which Weaver and Preston studied. Finally she said, "He doesn't look 27."

Before Peter could offer the reminder that sleep made most people look younger, the doctor spoke up. "He's not. He's 24." When everyone stared at the doctor, he shrugged. "I asked him for those statistics and his medical history last night. He said he's 24."

"This isn't his real ID," Weaver stated, looking to Peter for an explanation.

"He wanted to rent a car. That's a challenge for a 24-year-old male. I wouldn't put it past him to get a fake ID in order to get what he wants." Peter sighed. On the one hand, he understood the Marshals' desire to know the kid's real identity. On the other hand, he'd promised to keep Neal's family out of it, and telling the Marshals that he thought _Neal Caffrey_ was the kid's real name might break that promise. "He's a CI. No, I don't have a social security number for him. No, I wouldn't necessarily trust that number if he gave you one. And yes, he has several aliases, probably more than I know about."

The Marshals conferred for a moment, and decided they could leave. As Peter walked them out of the room, Preston handed him a business card and asked, "Has he ever gone by the name _Danny_?"

"That one's not on my list of known aliases," Peter said.

"If you hear of him using it, give me a call," Preston requested.

"Is this Danny of yours in some kind of trouble?"

"He's a missing person. His family would like to know where he is."

Family. Neal had said his family might think he was dead. And this morning Neal might have died of an overdose. Was that a coincidence? Did he suspect it was the Marshals at the door, and been willing to escape through any means? "How long has he been missing?"

"He disappeared about 6 years ago."

Peter closed the door behind them, and stood lost in thought. Missing persons wasn't the Marshals' jurisdiction. Their interest would be in missing prisoners, or missing witnesses. If Neal was Danny, what had he gotten himself into? Was this why Neal said he hadn't had many options other than crime?

Walking out of the entryway, Peter saw the doctor sitting at the desk, making notes. The man looked up and asked Peter, "What's a CI?"

Taking the opposite chair, Peter explained, "It stands for Confidential Informant. It's sort of like a consultant. Someone with knowledge or connections useful to law enforcement can act as a CI to help catch criminals, and often will get immunity in return."

"Your stepson has had a troubled past?"

"You have no idea. In fact, I'm beginning to think I've seen just the tip of the iceberg."

Both men worked in silence until Neal started mumbling in his sleep. They looked up, and then rushed over to the bed when they heard, "Can't breathe."

"What's wrong?" Peter demanded.

"He's breathing fine. It's either a dream or a flashback."

Neal had quieted, but Peter had started to worry and couldn't stop. "If he's been in a situation where he stopped breathing before, is it more likely to happen again?"

"Not necessarily," the doctor said, but then caught Peter's expression. "But it is the job of a parent to worry. Have you taken CPR?"

"Yes, but the classes use dummies. I've never tried it on a real person."

"You would put your hands here," the doctor demonstrated, placing his hands on Neal's chest in the correct position. Neal didn't wake, but Peter could tell he sensed the weight of the doctor's hands, which resulted in the young man breathing more quickly. The doctor removed his hands, and the breathing returned to normal. "Now you try."

Peter didn't particularly want to disturb Neal, but did need to be prepared in case anything went wrong. He placed his hands on Neal's chest, and the doctor made a slight adjustment. At least this time it didn't sound like Neal was going to hyperventilate.

"Like that," the doctor said. He smiled and added, "He knows it's you."

Peter pulled his hands away. "That's impossible. He's barely conscious."

"Studies have shown unconscious and even comatose patients can have some level of awareness of their surroundings. He reacted differently to you. For both of us, it started with a slight gasp of surprise when touched. With me, he remained uncomfortable. With you, he sighed and relaxed. I'm a stranger, but you're his father. He knows he's safe with you here."

"Whoa." Peter blinked and rubbed his face while he tried to process that news. Not even the infamous Neal Caffrey could pull off a con while asleep. Suddenly he felt a terrifying sense of responsibility. "We're not even related."

"Yes, as a stepfather yours isn't a biological relationship. But sometimes the family we choose is even more important to us than the family we're born into. Whatever he might say, in his heart he chooses you."

"That's… Wow. That's a little overwhelming."

"And that response makes me believe he's right to trust you. Now let's wake him up."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Neal had long ago learned to sleep lightly, so he could stay a step ahead of the law or of partners who wanted to sneak away with his share of the take. As a result, this struggle to wake surprised and disoriented him. He didn't remember where he was, or who was with him. But he knew he wasn't alone. There were voices, and someone shaking his shoulder. It stirred a memory, of a time he was in danger. "No," he moaned, remembering the pain of that time. He rolled onto his side, curling up and holding his rib cage. "Don't. No more."

A voice continued, urging him to wake. Neal knew that voice. As awareness grew, he realized his ribs weren't bruised. His eyes opened, slammed shut in reaction to the light, and then opened again more slowly. His grogginess worried him, but he wasn't in immediate danger. "What happened?"

"Three times the recommended dose of a prescription night-time cold medicine happened," Peter said in what could only be called an accusing tone. The man was upset. "What were you thinking?"

"Ummm." Neal slowly sat up, and leaned against the headboard. He didn't quite follow Peter's question, so he just said, "Water?"

"He's probably a bit dehydrated," said someone Neal couldn't quite place, but since he handed over a glass of water, Neal decided he liked him.

As soon as Neal handed back an empty glass, Peter continued the interrogation. "Do you have any idea what could have happened?"

Having no idea what had happened, much less what could have happened, Neal shook his head and said, "This isn't my shirt." The stranger laughed, and the fog lifted a little. He wasn't a stranger. He was Dr. Santos. Peter had said Neal could have more cold medicine after the doctor checked him over. And so Neal had taken a dose when the doctor seemed to be done. But maybe the doctor had already given him some? Or had that been the night before? And there had been other people. "Were there really Marshals here, or did I dream that?"

"That was real," Peter confirmed. "As was your overdose. Now tell me: did you do that on purpose?"

"What? Why would I…" Neal simply stared at Peter.

"I think that's a _no_," added Dr. Santos.

"Thank God." Peter sat down heavily on the bed across from Neal's.


	15. Chapter 15 - Identity Crisis

AN: Here's a little something for Elizabeth fans

**Chapter 15: Identity Crisis**

**New York City. Art gallery. Thursday morning. Early December, 2003.**

Once the clients left, Elizabeth Burke gathered up her notes from the meeting and let her mind wander back to her husband. She wished she knew what advice to give Peter about this Neal Caffrey person, but it was tricky. After 4 years of marriage, Peter was slowly getting comfortable with the idea of telling her details about his cases, but it still felt like pulling teeth sometimes. Maybe by their 10th anniversary he'd open up more about his work. Not that he ever lied to her, but she suspected he stayed quiet about things that might worry her.

At least his asking her opinion about Neal was a step in the right direction. But it was a step he'd be more likely to repeat if she pulled through for him this time. Honestly, in this instance he'd be better off calling… El smiled, pulled out her cell phone, and hit the 4th number on her speed dial. "Hi, Dad," she said, and asked a professional psychiatrist for insight into a bad boy who had latched onto an FBI agent as a father figure.

Twenty minutes of information overload later, El had a better appreciation for why her mother discouraged El's father from discussing his work at home. She should aim for a middle ground with Peter; fortunately she found FBI cases more interesting than psychiatry. Her head was still spinning from all of the scenarios her father had suggested.

The part that stuck with her was that as an FBI agent, Peter would come across first as an authority figure. Then someone would notice the things that made Peter unique: his intelligence, his honesty and loyalty, his belief that the law and justice should prevail. He was the classic good guy in the white hat or shining armor, depending on the type of metaphor you preferred. A successful con artist was perceptive, and thus would notice even more. For instance, he might realize that Peter cared deeply about the people he loved or felt responsible for, and was highly protective of them. This combination of traits, for whatever reason, was apparently something Neal Caffrey craved, something that was currently missing in his life, perhaps something that had always been missing.

It seemed to Elizabeth that a con artist would be surrounded by lies and manipulation. Not only did he specialize in those things, but probably his partners did, too. And even the good guys might use those things as tools, justifying it as necessary to catch the bad guys. That would make Peter surprising, intriguing, and probably refreshing.

Of course, this was all speculation. If Elizabeth wanted to understand Neal, she should really talk to him herself. With that goal in mind, she called her husband back. Peter mentioned the doctor was there, and she got the impression he wanted to cut the call short and get back to her later. "No," she insisted. "If the doctor believes you're Neal's stepfather, then he believes I'm his mother. His mother would insist on talking to him."

Peter sighed. "Ok. But before you talk to _Henry_, I need to warn you that he's really out of it right now."

"Oh, did his fever go up again?"

"No. Well, I don't think so. It's just… The thing is…"

"Peter, what are you trying not to tell me?"

"He sort of took too much of a prescription cold medicine a little while ago. And he may have passed out, very briefly."

"He overdosed?" Elizabeth asked.

"I wouldn't say _overdosed_, exactly. It wasn't intentional, El. He just got a little disoriented, because these meds will do that to you."

"An accidental overdose is still an overdose. Peter, you sound…" Elizabeth paused to find the right word. "You sound a little frazzled."

"Yeah. Apparently fatherhood does that to me." His voice got quieter. "El, why are you asking for this?"

"Partly it's curiosity. These criminals you chase… They keep you at work late, keep you working even after you get home…"

"Checking out the competition?" There was a smile in Peter's voice.

"Just trying to understand the fascination. To understand you. And who knows, maybe I'll learn something useful. It can't hurt, right?"

"Probably not." Peter's voice continued, but he was speaking to the people in the room rather than into the phone. "Dr. Santos, my wife would like to talk to your patient, if that's alright." Elizabeth couldn't hear the doctor's response, but then she heard her husband say, "Ok, hon. _Henry_ is all yours." And then, "Take the phone, kid."

"Hello?" said a voice she didn't know. Neal Caffrey, currently posing as someone named _Henry_, apparently.

"Hi. Tell them to back off if they're hovering. I'd like a chance to talk without them distracting you or eavesdropping."

"She says to stop hovering." He coughed and then said, "Ok. They gave me some space."

"I'm Elizabeth Burke. Peter's wife. And you're Neal?"

"Right." He sounded young and congested.

"You sound pretty miserable right now. Is that why you took too much cold medicine?"

"I don't really remember that. Everything's fuzzy after the Marshals showed up. I still don't think this is my shirt. Do you think it's Peter's?"

"Does it fit?" she asked.

"It's a size too big, maybe. Not bad for sleeping."

"Would you say Peter's about a size larger than you are?"

"Yeah. Do you think he knows I have his shirt?"

"Peter's right. You're really out of it. He says you're normally very bright."

"He really said that?" Neal sounded surprised, and pleased.

"Yes. He also said you may have saved his life yesterday, by pretending you were an FBI agent. I'd like to thank you for that."

"Is he allowed to tell you stuff like that? Stuff about his cases?"

Not wanting to complain about how little Peter told her, Elizabeth simply said, "Peter and I have jobs we love, and we spend a lot of time at them. I think being interested in each other's passions is one of the keys to a strong marriage. Didn't your parents talk to each other about their work?"

"They're off limits." Suddenly Neal sounded much more awake.

"Your parents?"

"Family."

Elizabeth wanted to argue, but decided she'd have more luck if she respected his boundaries. "What made you decide to help Peter yesterday?"

The pause lasted so long that Elizabeth was about to ask if Neal was still there, when he finally said, "Do you know how a con artist works?"

"Well, I know _con_ is short for _confidence_. It means convincing people to have confidence in you, so they'll believe what you tell them, making them more likely to do what you want."

"A good con creates the illusion of an instant bond, one that rarely lasts more than a few days or even a few minutes. After a while, every relationship you have feels temporary, and fake. You get so good at hiding your real self that you're not even sure you can find it anymore."

"Your relationship with Peter, as he chases you – that's one of the longest relationships you've had in while, isn't it?"

"With someone I can trust, yeah."

"And it isn't fake. Peter wants to find the real you, get to know who you really are. That's it, isn't it? You think he's one of the few people who can do it, and who you trust to get it right. You want him to find you."

"Maybe. Not for the being arrested and going to jail part, though." There was a sound that Elizabeth thought was a suppressed cough, and then drinking from a glass of water. "Chasing after me must take a lot of time. It's probably not worth it. Do you want me to disappear for good?"

Elizabeth gasped. Was the overdose not accidental? "You mean, kill yourself?"

Neal's response was somewhere between a sigh and a moan. "What is it with everyone today? I'm not suicidal. But I could leave the country permanently, go beyond the FBI's jurisdiction."

"When you said chasing you isn't worth it, do you mean you think you're not worth it? Because that's not true. Peter knows there's something different, something special about you. It bothers him that you're a criminal, because he can see your potential for good. I've never seen him react this way to anyone else he's chased. If you let him, he can help you."

"It's not that easy."

"Yes, it is. You're complicating it, because you're scared of what he'll find. But Peter has good instincts about these things. If you're afraid to trust yourself, at least you can trust him."

"Maybe I'm conning you now. Maybe helping Peter yesterday wasn't anything personal. I saw Roland was getting hot under the collar, and I don't like violence, so I stepped in."

"You made yourself the target of a violent man, so an innocent man would be spared. Is that version of the story supposed to make me like you less?"

"Maybe it was all an elaborate plan to fool Peter into thinking I'm a good guy who just got a little turned around. That way, if I get caught someday, he'll recommend leniency."

"I'm not buying it."

"That's just because," Neal stopped to yawn before continuing, "I'm not really trying. If I were on top of my game, you'd hate me right now."

"Still not buying it."

"I totally conned you from the start. Now, even when I confess that I was lying, you don't believe it." Another yawn could be heard.

"And why would you want to con me?"

"Practice. Mischief. Indirectly influencing Peter. Take your pick." He was sounding tired, and yawned again. "Sorry."

"You know, it's hard to believe you're evil when you're being so polite."

"Peter will glare a hole right through my head if I swear at you. What?" Elizabeth realized Neal wasn't talking to her. "No. Go away."

In the background, Peter said, "The doctor wants you to stay awake. Since you can't stop yawning, that means coffee. Give back the phone and drink up." A moment later Peter was much clearer, speaking directly into the phone. "Hey, hon."

"Is he wearing your shirt?"

"Is he still going on about that? Yeah, mine was the easiest thing to grab after he was sick this morning."

"Oh, poor thing."

"Well, fortunately the doctor was here, so there wasn't much for Nurse Burke to do."

"I meant Neal. He sounded miserable. He's sick, and scared."

"Scared of what?"

"Himself, mostly. I think he's having an identity crisis. Part of him wants you to find the real person hidden under the slick con man exterior, and another part of him is convinced that the real person isn't worth finding."

"That's quite an analysis from one short conversation," Peter remarked.

"He claims he conned me, trying to gain my sympathy. Do you believe he could?"

"He's certainly capable of it."

"I think, between the fever and overdose, that he told me the truth about his fears. And then he panicked and spent the last half of the conversation trying to convince me that the first half had been a lie."

"El, a staggeringly unconvincing lie is how he manipulated Villiers yesterday. He denied being a Federal agent, while looking and sounding so much like an agent that Villiers was suspicious."

"Isn't that actually a staggeringly unconvincing truth? Unless you're telling me that Neal is actually an undercover agent."

"A lie wrapped in a truth presented as another lie. He's an expert at this stuff."

"And you're an expert at Neal. Do you think that right now he's capable of pulling off such a complex con?"

Peter sighed. "Going up against my brilliant wife? Unlikely. But I'm willing to bet that by the time we check out of here, he finds a way to steal that shirt."

"A small price, if you can make him change his ways."

"I'm just waiting until he's not impaired, and we'll finally have the Caffrey Conversation. Then we'll see if I let him keep the shirt."


	16. Chapter 16 - The Caffrey Conversation

**Chapter 16: The Caffrey Conversation**

**St. Louis. Hotel parking lot. Thursday morning. Early December, 2003.**

Peter Burke was immensely grateful when Dr. Santos volunteered to watch over Neal while Peter took a break. He purchased a cup of coffee from a shop in the lobby, and then walked out to the Gateway Arch. Sitting on one of the benches in the park, he looked at a bridge crossing the Mississippi, and wished it was the Brooklyn Bridge. He'd been away from home too long.

At least the weather was decent, for now, although the clouds gathering on the horizon looked like they would bring rain later. And he got a decent signal on his cell phone. He'd called in his report on the Villiers' arrest last night, but should check in. And he needed to run something past his boss without Neal listening in.

Trust Hughes to get right to the point. "Good job last night, Peter. I've gone through your report. But why aren't back in New York, or at least on a plane?"

"Remember our James Bonds, a.k.a. Neal Caffrey? Villiers brought him in for the museum job, but when I showed up Caffrey walked to avoid blowing my cover. He didn't just walk away from the take; he also provided information I needed to make the arrest."

"Why?"

Peter had been wondering the same thing since yesterday afternoon. "He doesn't like Villiers' methods. He protected my cover because he thought I'd be in danger, even though helping me meant sacrificing his cut. I honestly think he enjoyed taking down the bad guys. His definition of _bad guys_ is probably different than yours and mine, but there's enough common ground that he could be a valuable asset for us."

"You think you can bring him over to our side."

"I think part of him is already there, or wants to be there. He was acting on instinct yesterday, with no prompting from me, and his first instinct was helpful rather than criminal. I want to stay in St. Louis a little longer, to talk to him about it away from his less savory friends in New York."

"Are you saying his information and actions had a material impact on last night's operation?"

"There is a very good chance Villiers would have escaped if Caffrey hadn't been on our side."

"Is he asking for immunity?"

"Can we offer it?" Peter countered.

After a brief pause to consider, Hughes said, "I'll run it up the ladder and see what we can do. In return, expect them to ask for information we need to recover items he's suspected of stealing. And immunity would only be for past crimes. Any sign that he continues to engage in criminal activities, and we'll throw his ass in jail. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

"And remember, it doesn't matter what he agrees to in St. Louis, if he can't stick with it when he's back among those less savory friends you mentioned. Don't make a deal unless you're sure you can trust him."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

After Peter returned to the hotel room Dr. Santos left, satisfied that his patient was in good hands. "If he can keep lunch down, he can try the prescription cold meds again," he said as he left.

By noon, Neal was still coughing and sniffling, but more awake. He was restless and bored, and at one point Peter looked up from his email to see the kid breaking into the room's safe.

"There's nothing in there," Peter said. "You're wasting your time."

"Do you go to a shooting range to practice?"

"Of course."

"It's the same thing. And as it's an empty safe in my room, there's nothing illegal about it. Oh, look." He pulled one of Peter's ties out of the safe.

Peter was impressed at how fast his roommate had cracked the safe and by the sleight-of-hand with his tie, but didn't want to encourage Neal. Who knew what the next trick would be? Probably disappearing from the room. And since he'd been experiencing cabin fever earlier, he couldn't blame the kid for wanting a change of scenery. He'd better arrange it himself, if he wanted to stay in control. "Where do you want to go for lunch?"

"You mean we can leave the hotel?"

"You're not a prisoner. If you think you can handle it without passing out, throwing up, or doing that humming thing again, then yeah, let's get out of here for a while."

"Humming thing?" Neal asked, then shook his head. "I probably don't want to know." He walked over to the desk, and pulled Peter's laptop toward himself.

"Hey," Peter protested. "That's FBI property."

Neal was typing. "I don't care about your mortgage fraud case. I'm just looking for a restaurant. Although…" He glanced at Peter and treated him to a brilliant smile. "I would love to read my file."

"No." Peter pulled the laptop back. The screen showed the home page of a local restaurant. Steak and seafood, nothing too outrageous in terms of price or for someone who was sick, and only a few blocks from the hotel. "This looks good." He pushed Neal's hands away from an attempt to access the keyboard again. "You're not going to read your file."

"Fine. I can wait while you log out of the FBI systems. I need to find someplace I can buy more clothes. I didn't pack for more than 2 days." Neal sounded hoarse, but thankfully much more coherent than he'd been this morning.

"No."

"You really like saying _no_. You should try _yes_ sometimes. It can be fun. Let's face it. You could really use a new tie. Something from this century."

"My ties are fine, and I'm not taking you shopping. The front desk can point us to a Laundromat."

"Peter! No."

"See, I'm not the only one saying _no_."

Neal gathered his clothing and started sorting it on his bed. "Peter, we're not talking about polyester here. This is the finest wool. Cashmere. Cotton-silk blend. You don't toss these into a washer with your socks." He walked back to the desk and paged through the hotel's service directory. "The hotel will pick up our clothes and take them to a trusted dry cleaner. They can get everything back to us first thing tomorrow morning. I'll call."

Peter rolled his eyes, but collected his own clothes while Neal called in the request and then dressed in black slacks and a black sweater. With clothing on the way to the dry cleaners, Peter's laptop in the safe, and the do-not-disturb sign removed so the maids would visit their room, they left for lunch.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

It was a gray and drizzly day in St. Louis, but the combination of brisk air and the pulse of the city around them perked Neal up considerably. It wasn't until the energy returned to his step and the sharpness to his mind that he appreciated how out of it he'd been for the last 36 hours. He was still congested, but at least he could _think_ now, rather than just react.

As much as he wanted a glass of wine and one of the more exotic dishes at the restaurant, he knew it wouldn't be a good mix with the virus and meds. He selected a caffeinated soft drink and broiled catfish, shaking his head in amusement as the server took away their menus.

"What?" asked Peter.

"I don't think I've had catfish since I was a teenager."

"I guess that doesn't fit with your world traveler image these days." Peter paused as their drinks arrived and took a deep breath before saying, "Are you ready to talk about changing your image?"

Neal couldn't suppress a smile. "You're not really a small talk kind of guy, are you?"

"You want to tell me about the last time you were in St. Louis?" Peter countered.

"Right. Let's talk about business. What do you have in mind?"

"When the Marshals dropped by this morning, I told them you were a CI. That was essentially the role you played in the arrest of Villiers, so I wasn't lying to them. And that's what I had planned to offer you. It's a sporadic kind of arrangement, where we contact you when we need information, or you contact us if you come across something that we'd find useful. In return, you get some leniency and sometimes there's reward money. But there's a problem with that scenario. It doesn't keep you busy. Between the need for money and sheer boredom, you'd still be out there getting into trouble. Sooner or later that trouble would be serious enough that I'd have to arrest you. It's really just a matter of time before you end up in prison, and that would be a waste. I know you probably won't tell me how you ended up on the wrong side of the law, but I hope you'll let me bring you back to my side, because I honestly believe it's where you belong."

"You said you planned to offer me a CI role. If you've changed your mind, what other option is there?"

"I'd like to bring you in full-time."

Neal could feel his eyes widening in shock. "As an agent?"

"No, we can't do that. But we do hire civilian consultants. If half the things we suspect you of are true, then you have a lot of expertise that can be used to help us solve crimes. You're smart, creative, and I think you enjoyed your part in putting Villiers away."

"Still playing cops and robbers, just on the other side."

"Where I can keep an eye on you, and train you."

As the waiter delivered their meals, Neal thought back to his plan for a self-directed masters program in crime. He hadn't found a clear direction. Could this be it? Solving crime, with Peter as his advisor? He turned it over in his head, considering it from every angle. He was surprised at how tempting he found the offer. Then he was surprised to find he'd finished most of his meal in silence. He looked up to find Peter watching him with apparent boundless patience. This was the Agent Burke who would sit in a van for hours on end to catch a suspect. Neal did not look forward to that particular lesson, but he'd been accused of impatience and recklessness enough to know that it was something he needed to work on. "I'd work specifically with you, not some random agent?" he asked.

"Not what I expected as your first question," Peter admitted. "But as the agent who recruited you, I'd work with you at first. I have a good shot at being named the leader of a white collar task force, and if that happens I'd include you in my team. Over time, as you prove your worth to the Bureau, others might request your help. Or you can move to another team at your own request, if you want more variety."

"You can't simply make me this offer without asking something in return," Neal said. Before he could ask what the Bureau wanted, the waiter returned with a dessert menu. With regret, Neal declined. He still didn't have much of an appetite. "What am I expected to do to show good faith?"

"Help us track down the whereabouts of some missing items, so we can return them to their rightful owners. Specifically, things that went astray with your help." Peter gave the waiter a credit card.

"How many?"

"The more you return, the better the chances we can close the cases where you're the prime suspect without pressing any charges. I can't give you exact numbers or guarantees yet, Neal. If you tell me you're interested, then the final negotiations will happen back in New York. And there would be an interview. People will want to ask you about the work you did here on the Villiers case, about why you did it. Convincing them that you were acting on your own volition, and that you're sincere about making a change, will be a big part of getting approval for this deal."

Peter signed the check, and they started the walk back to the hotel. Neal was disappointed that his energy level had dropped. Fighting off the virus was taking a lot out of him. He stopped and ran his hands through his hair in sheer frustration at his physical weakness and his indecisiveness. "Peter."

The agent turned around. "You ok?"

"I don't usually work alone. Others will be affected if I do this."

"I can't offer them immunity, too. It will be hard enough getting it for you."

"I know. It's just… I need to leave out a few names if I help you clear out some of those cases of yours."

"Neal, they're going to expect to make some arrests as a result of bringing you on board. You'll have to name names."

Neal closed his eyes for a moment, before deciding that was a bad idea. It made him dizzy. They were standing in front of an office building with a set of wide, shallow steps leading up to the entrance. Flanking the steps were ornate brass handrails. Neal leaned against one of them. He looked up, as if seeking inspiration, and recognized the building. This was where his mother had worked.

He rarely thought of her anymore, but right now he wondered what it had been like for her to enter WitSec. To leave behind so much, knowing so little about what would happen next. And knowing there was no turning back. Before today, he hadn't believed they had much in common. He hadn't had much sympathy for her. Right now, that was starting to change.

Peter stood in front of him, his expression a mix of puzzled and worried. "You're looking a little pale."

"It's starting to hit me, this is one of the scariest things I've ever considered."

AN: I had a chance to visit St. Louis last week, and enjoyed walking around the arch. I didn't have a specific office building in mind when I wrote this chapter, but there were several in the vicinity of Chestnut street that would work for this scene.


	17. Chapter 17 - Conditions

**Chapter 17: Conditions **

**St. Louis. Downtown office court. Thursday afternoon. Early December, 2003.**

Neal Caffrey stood in front of the office building where his mother used to work, leaning against a handrail for the stairs that led up to the entrance. The virus he'd come down with on Tuesday had left him exhausted, but it was the offer to work for the FBI that left him pale. Life comes down to a few moments, he realized, when you make an irrevocable choice. This is what it must have been like when his mother had to decide whether to enter Witness Protection. The pressure to make the right decision was enormous. And, as he'd just told Peter, scary.

"The reports I've read from Interpol, not to mention the scene with Villiers in the bar, paint a picture of someone fearless," Peter said.

"That's not the same thing as courage. Lack of fear is usually the result of living in the moment, not bothering to think about consequences." Neal shrugged. "At least, that's how it works for me."

"And I'm offering more than a short-term deal. This is a future you'd have to commit to, for the long-term. It's all about consequences."

"And not just for me. I have to think about how it affects others."

"I can't offer everyone you know the same deal."

Neal almost smiled at the thought of Mozzie's response to being offered a job at the FBI. But it bothered him that he couldn't wrap his head around Kate's response. This woman was _the one_. He should be able to count on her support. He shouldn't be doubting her. If he could just find her, he'd make her understand. "Most of them wouldn't want it. But there are 3 people I've depended on the most. They're my friends, Peter. Anyone else is fair game, but these people I have to protect. I won't give you any information that would lead to their arrest."

"Any other conditions?" Peter asked.

Neal pushed away from the railing and continued walking back to the hotel. Peter matched his pace in silence, as Neal considered Peter's question. The FBI would consider his request to protect Kate, Mozzie and Alex from prosecution a huge concession. They wouldn't be willing to offer much more. But it seemed to Neal that he was the one taking the biggest risk. He was the one facing jail time if things went wrong. How did he know he could trust them? In the lobby of the hotel, as Peter pushed the button to call the elevator, Neal said, "There is one more thing I'd ask."

"What's that?"

"This deal only works if we trust each other," Neal said as they stepped into the elevator. "If I confess most of my secrets and crimes to you, then you're the one in the position of power. You have all of the leverage."

"I'm the boss. Of course I'm in the position of power."

"We're talking about a lot more power than you would have over anyone else who works for you. How do I trust you not to abuse that power?"

"I'm trying to get you a deal that keeps you out of prison, and you think you can't trust me? Listen, I'm going out of my way to help you out here, and there's no personal gain from my perspective. All I get is paperwork and worry. There's no one you can trust more than me."

They left the elevator and made their way back to the room. The beds were made and the towels replaced. "Don't get me wrong," Neal said. "I appreciate what you're trying to do for me."

"Really? Because it doesn't sound like it."

Neal slipped off his shoes, leaving them in the closet, and sat down on the bed. Elbows propped on his thighs, he rested his aching head in his hands. "Is the deal off then?"

"We don't exactly have a deal, yet." Peter placed his badge and gun on the desk, not looking at Neal. "And I wouldn't end it because you happen to piss me off. I already expect that will be a habit of yours."

"Yeah, I can see that." Neal gave in to his exhaustion, and lay back on the bed. "I can find out on my own. I should have done it that way, instead of trying to ask you directly."

"You haven't asked anything. What do you want to know?"

"What's your vice, Peter? What vile, unspeakable thing do you crave?"

"Ah, damn. Are you running a fever again?"

Neal opened his eyes and pushed away Peter's hand from his forehead. "No. I'm tired and miserable and scared. You're trying to turn my life upside down, and whatever I decide there's probably no going back."

"You want a little control."

"Is that unreasonable?"

"No. No, it's not." Peter sat on his own bed, arranging the pillows against the headboard to lean back against them. He grabbed the remote control, turned on the television and surfed until he found a sports channel. Leaving the sound muted, he said, "The first thing that comes to mind is deviled ham. You should hear the complaints when I bring a deviled ham sandwich to a stakeout in the van. You'd think I'm the only person in the world who doesn't think it's vile. But you're looking for something that's more of a secret."

Suddenly Neal regretted asking. He wanted to believe that he'd found someone who was hero material, who was everything he'd once believed his dad was. He didn't want to hear that Peter was only pretending to be good. He couldn't take that misery on top of everything else right now. Neal started to tell Peter to forget it, but the words got lost in a painful bought of coughing. Next thing he knew, Peter was helping him sit up and offering a glass of water.

"Better?" Peter asked when the coughing subsided.

Neal nodded. "Thanks." His voice sounded awful, and his throat was on fire.

"Sounds like you need that cold medicine. If you're not nauseous, let's get you some."

Neal nodded again, and stood up. He pulled the sweatpants and Peter's shirt out of his duffle bag. It had to be Peter's shirt, because it wasn't anything he had packed. He frowned at it, unclear about why he had been wearing it earlier, but couldn't summon the energy to question it. Instead he walked into the bathroom to change into his sleepwear.

Minutes later, Peter measured out a single dose of the cough medicine for Neal. He then placed the bottle in the safe with a note that said "Only Peter opens this bottle."

Neal slid into bed and allowed his mind to drift. He heard Peter walk back to his own bed, presumably watching TV again. "Peter?"

"Yeah?"

"I'll take the deal."

"I'll push for the best one they can make."

"I know."

Peter sighed. "I don't like football. That's my deep, dark secret. I watch the Giants and follow the scores, because that's what everyone expects."

Neal opened his eyes and looked at the agent. "Why?"

"When I was in high school, a player for our school's team was substituted at the last minute in an away game. He didn't expect to play, didn't even have his uniform with him. He put on the uniform of a team member who was pulled at the last minute. Word didn't make it to the announcer, who called this player by another name throughout the game. The stats of the other player were called out. The opposing team also thought he was someone else, and were making decisions based on that. Supposedly it was all an innocent mistake, but it still caused a scandal and the win was taken away from us. When it was over, I realized that the bulky uniforms, the helmets, all make it impossible to tell who's really out there. It could be anyone, and the people watching the game would never know."

Neal had to clear his throat before saying, "Safety."

"Yeah, I know. There are good reasons for wearing the bulky uniforms. But from then on, baseball and basketball seemed more honest to me. You can see who you're dealing with."

Neal closed his eyes again and nodded. He understood why Peter wouldn't want what he had shared to be common knowledge, but at the same time it was a preference Neal understood. He liked seeing who he was dealing with. "Don't like jobs with masks," was the last thing he said before drifting off.


	18. Chapter 18 - Tests

Warning, in case it sets off your buttons: There is speculation here that Neal was abused as a child. We don't actually witness any abuse in this story.

**Chapter 18: Tests **

**St. Louis. Hotel room. Thursday afternoon. Early December, 2003.**

Peter Burke spent a lot of time on the phone while Neal Caffrey slept, nailing down details of the deal to bring Neal in as a consultant. He decided it was a good sign that the kid was scared about making a commitment to the FBI. It meant he was taking it seriously, and grasped how big a step it would be. It also meant Peter wanted to get a deal on record as soon as possible, before anything happened to change Neal's mind. Those 3 people Neal wanted to protect presented a risk; they might not trust Neal and the FBI to keep them out of jail. He worried that Dante was one of those people, and the man might already have a plan in the works to "rescue" Neal from the government.

By 6pm in St. Louis, it was 7pm in New York. He'd gotten as far as he could with brokering a deal. The rest would have to be completed when they were back in New York. Satisfied with his progress for the day, Peter called Elizabeth. They talked about her day at the gallery at first, but then El asked, "Did you have the Caffrey Conversation?"

"Yeah. It was…" Peter stopped himself from saying it went well, and instead confessed what he'd found most surprising, "It was short."

"Is that bad?"

"No. He said he'd take a deal, so I can't call it bad. But I expected it would take longer to convince him. Instead we talked a few minutes, he thought it over a few minutes… Less than an hour total from start to finish, and that included eating lunch."

In the background, Peter could hear El pouring dog food into a bowl for Satchmo. "Do you think he's taking it seriously?" she asked.

"That's the thing, El. I could tell it was very serious for him. He was obviously shaken at the thought of what he was committing to. But it also seemed like he was already almost convinced, and the conversation was more of a formality."

"Didn't you say you mentioned it to him yesterday? He's known for a while that you wanted to have this conversation, and he would have been thinking about the implications. Everything you've said and done for the last day had a part in convincing him. I think the Caffrey Conversation started yesterday in that bar, and continued for almost 24 hours."

"You're right, El. When I recognized him in the bar, I thought that I had about a minute to convince him to cooperate with me. In reality everything that happened from then until now has been a test, for both of us. We proved we can work together. That's why he wanted to know if he'd be working with me if he took the deal."

"Sounds like you passed the test."

Things were making more sense now. "The son of a bitch of was testing me. At the very end, right before he agreed to the deal, he started getting on my nerves by implying he couldn't trust me. He was testing me, to see if I'd try to back out of the deal if he made me mad. When he saw I wouldn't give up on him when things got rough, the Caffrey Conversation was over."

Next Peter called room service for dinner. He debated whether to wake Neal, and decided he should try to get a little food into him, to help him keep up his strength to fight off the virus. Waking someone only 5 hours into an 8-hour prescription cold medicine was a challenge. Eventually his roommate had his eyes open and was eating, but clearly his brain wasn't fully engaged.

Interestingly, this meant Neal talked. A lot. It was harmless stuff, consisting mainly of commentary about art history and technique.

"Did you learn this stuff in college?" Peter asked, when Neal stopped to eat a little more. It was taking him forever to eat, because he kept talking.

"I didn't go to college."

"Your record shows degrees and financial aid from multiple schools. You didn't attend any of them?"

Perversely, now the kid decided to eat. He merely shook his head in response.

"Then what did you do after high school?"

"Travelled."

"Where?"

"Everywhere. Picked up 6 different languages, at least conversationally. I only read 5 of them."

Peter suspected that right now, Neal would answer any question. There were many Peter wanted to ask, but he didn't want to abuse the situation. He would stick to the ones that wouldn't incriminate Neal, starting with, "Were you ever in foster care?" No harm in testing out his theory about Neal's childhood, right?

"No, not really. Because she was my aunt. Or at least, they thought she was. And it was just a few weeks now and then. That first time, Child Protective Services had threatened to step in after the hospital filed their report, and she said we'd run rather than let CPS take me. I didn't understand then. I was only 9. But when I was older I understood about the rehab, and why they didn't want CPS involved. It was dangerous in our situation, you know?"

"Yeah, right." Peter didn't follow half of that, and suspected that any further explanation would be too convoluted to follow. Given Neal's penchant for getting into trouble, maybe he should stick to gathering information that would be useful in an emergency. "What's your blood type?"

"A negative."

At last, direct answers that didn't ramble. "What's your date of birth?"

"March 21st, 1978."

"Do you have any allergies, especially medical allergies?"

"No. Peter, is this an interrogation?"

"This is not an interrogation. I'm just learning the basics in case of an emergency. You said you wandered out of a hospital in St. Louis. When was that?"

"1996."

"You were 18. Why were you in the hospital?"

"I drowned."

It was all Peter could do not to yell. What had the kid been thinking? "You slipped out of a hospital after drowning. If they weren't finished treating you, you're lucky you didn't end up with pneumonia."

Neal shrugged. "A week later. Different city. I've never been that sick since. I make sure I take care of myself."

"Right."

"You don't believe me?" Neal sounded hurt. "Why not?"

"Two reasons. First, there's the report from Interpol that has you jumping from one rooftop to the next across alleys in Paris about a month ago."

"That's really nothing, Peter. Those old alleyways are incredibly narrow."

"And the second reason was what happened when you regained consciousness this morning. Holding your ribs like they were bruised or fractured, and telling whoever you thought was there to stop. What kind of mess did you get yourself into?"

Neal stopped eating and leaned back in his chair, away from the desk they were using as a table. "That doesn't count. It was before."

"You were a minor?" No response. "And the person who hit you, was it an adult?" This time Neal nodded. Peter stood and looked out the window as thoughts swirled through his head. Neal had already told him, and he hadn't caught on. "You were 9, and CPS got involved after the hospital filed their report." He returned to the table, bracing his arms on the chair he'd been sitting on moments before. "And after that, you still want to protect your family from the scrutiny of the FBI?"

"They didn't know what he was doing."

"How could they not know?"

Neal crossed his arms. "Way too much beer?"

"Rehab. You stayed with your aunt when someone else was in rehab, and that's why you didn't get pulled into foster care." As the pieces of the story came together in Peter's mind, he wanted to hit someone. "Did he do anything else, other than hit you?"

"Messed with my mind, I guess." He sighed. "It's ok, Peter. He didn't do anything sexual."

"Tell me he went to prison."

"That's what they told me. There was a trial, but I didn't testify. I was… out of it for a while. I blocked out most of the memories, but sometimes a few slip back, like this morning." It took a while for Neal to get all of that out, like he was tired, lost in his head, or some combination of both.

"Give me a name." When Neal didn't respond, Peter slammed his hands down on the table, rattling the empty dishes. "Damn it, Neal, give me a name. I want to make sure he went to prison."

Neal stared at Peter a moment, then regretfully shook his head. "If you look him up, you'll find details about his victim. It leads back to my family."

"After the deal we just made, you don't trust me?"

"You, I trust. Everyone who would help pull the information or could find it in my file afterwards? No." Neal sounded utterly exhausted.

Peter closed his eyes in frustration for a moment. He hated giving up before he found answers, and in his current state Neal wouldn't hold out for long. The meds made him chatty, and it must have taken great willpower to refuse to answer Peter's questions. "I could make you tell me."

"I know." Neal was staring at the table, and looked miserable.

Peter stepped away from the table, put his hands on his hips and sighed. "Go back to bed." He caught Neal's quick glance up at him. "This isn't easy for me, Neal. It's pounded into our heads as law enforcement officers to report and follow-up on child abuse as soon as we hear about it. I need you to look him up when you're back on your feet again, and if he's out of prison we'll make sure the authorities wherever he lives is aware of his record."

"Yeah, I got it." Soon Neal was back in bed, eyes closed. He seemed relaxed, but Peter couldn't help noticing the arm that lay protectively around his ribs.

"I'm sorry, Neal," Peter said softly, unsure if his roommate were still aware of his surroundings. "I didn't mean to stir up those kind of memories for you." Not wanting Neal to drift off on thoughts of abuse, Peter decided to give him something else to think about. "You met Elizabeth today, on the phone at least. I'll always remember the day I met her." And he continued the story until Neal was breathing deeply, clearly oblivious to the world.

AN: There are at least 2 birthdays floating out there on Neal Caffrey wanted posters. One is Oct 11, 1977, which is actually Matt Bomer's birthday. The other is March 21, 1978. I'm using that one, because of an episode where they show off the features of Peter's car by having it provide Neal's horoscope. Peter mentions what he thinks is Neal's astrological sign, and Neal says yes, that he was born March 21. So I think that's the birth date the writers want us to use.


	19. Chapter 19 - Consequences

AN: This chapter features evil!Kate. She's one of the bad guys in this story.

I'm not a medical expert, nor am I an expert on medical privacy laws. The hospital scene and doctor's comments are based almost entirely on my imagination.

**Chapter 19: Consequences **

**St. Louis. Hotel room. Thursday evening. Early December, 2003.**

It was almost 9pm when Peter Burke opened the door to the young brunette who came to collect the dishes from their evening meal. He had picked up his gun and badge before she arrived, not wanting them lying around. Neal Caffrey still slept, under the influence of a prescription-strength cold medicine.

Peter sat on the foot of the bed closest to the window, staying out of the way and wondering if he and Neal could finally return to New York in the morning. Suddenly the woman gathering the dishes tripped, and Peter's shirt was covered with leftover lasagna. "I'm so sorry," the woman said, her blue eyes wide with dismay. "You'll need to rinse that out, if you don't want a stain." She reached forward, as if to help him undress, but Peter waved her away.

"I'll change," he said, grabbing his last clean t-shirt on his way to the bathroom. After rinsing out his dress shirt, he left this gun on the bathroom counter and closed the door, keeping the weapon out of sight. He looked up to see the woman sitting on Neal's bed, pressing a white towel over the lower portion of Neal's face. "What the hell?" Peter asked.

"This is all your fault!" she said. "You couldn't leave him alone."

"Ok. Let's talk. How about you tell me what you're doing with that towel?"

"It's to keep him quiet, so he'll listen to me."

"Is it chloroform?"

"Something similar."

Peter stepped closer. "It sounds like a dangerous mix with a cold that makes it hard to breathe and the medication that put him to sleep. Just move the towel, ok?"

"Don't come any closer!"

Peter put his hands up around shoulder height, showing he was unarmed and trying to look non-threatening. "It's Kate, right? I didn't recognize you at first. Our photos of you are fuzzy, but you're suspected of being an accomplice of Neal's in some cons earlier this year. You heard we wanted to offer him a deal?"

"You can't have him," Kate answered. "We still need him."

"Then you should really put away that towel. He can't help anyone if he's dead."

"Better dead than a Fed. I'll kill him if you don't leave this room."

"Kate, that's enough. He's not breathing." Peter pulled Kate away from Neal, grabbing the towel from her. He experienced a moment of dizziness from the chemicals soaked into the fabric, before he tossed the towel into a corner. When Kate ran from the room, Peter wanted to give chase, but Neal really had stopped breathing. Remembering what Dr. Santos had demonstrated that morning, Peter began chest compressions. He also put the nightstand phone on speaker and called 9-1-1.

The paramedics arrived in a matter of minutes that felt like hours. And then time sped up crazily. There was a whirlwind of activity and questions. They were moving Neal to a stretcher, and asking Peter what had happened. They were giving Neal oxygen and asking if he had taken any drugs or medications. They were wheeling Neal out of the room and asking for the patient's name and allergies. One minute they were in the elevator, then suddenly in the ambulance, and then at the hospital, where someone made Peter stop following Neal and handed him forms to sign. Soon the police arrived to follow-up on a report of a guest attacked at a local hotel. Peter was glad he'd been able to grab his badge, because he was aware the story sounded bizarre. At least they took him seriously enough to issue a BOLO for a woman matching Kate's description trying to return to New York, and promised they'd get her fingerprints from the dishes in the hotel room and put the towel into evidence as an attempted murder weapon.

By the time they left, the doctor was ready for a chat. Dr. Siobhan Merritt assured Peter that Henry Neal Winslow (_everyone calls him Neal_) should be fine. "We'll keep him on oxygen a couple of more hours, to be safe, and have him stay overnight for observation. He'll have a tremendous headache when he wakes up, but that should be the worst of it. He's lucky, this time."

"This time?"

"Mr. Burke, you listed yourself as Neal's emergency contact. What, exactly, is your relationship?"

Peter pulled out his badge again. "I'm recruiting Neal to work for me at the FBI. This trip to St. Louis was a combination interview and on-the-job training."

"And how long have you known Neal?"

"About a year. As far as I know, he hasn't had any contact with his family since high school. Yesterday he told me they probably think he's dead, and he wants it that way." In other circumstances Peter would have been less blunt, but he wanted to make it clear that there wasn't a better option for an emergency contact.

"I see." Dr. Merritt closed her file, and studied Peter. "When Neal was admitted, we asked if he had a concussion. It's a common concern when dealing with someone who has been attacked. You said you didn't think so, but authorized a scan to let us check for injuries that our unconscious patient couldn't communicate to us. Did you know what we would find?"

Peter flashed back to the conversation over dinner. "Let me guess. Evidence of injuries from about 15 years ago, that could indicate he was a victim of child abuse. Evidence you need to report to law enforcement, unless I can tell you a report has already been filed."

Dr. Merritt sighed, clearly relieved that she wouldn't have to betray confidential patient information to an iffy emergency contact. "Has it been filed?"

"Neal told me the abuser was arrested and sent to prison. I plan to follow-up to confirm that." He couldn't help asking, "How bad were the injuries?"

"Bad enough to keep him in a hospital for a while." She shook her head. "I'm sorry. I really can't say any more."

"When can he go back to New York?" Peter asked.

"He doesn't have a concussion, but it's going to feel like he does. I'd like for him to avoid travel until Saturday."

With a police officer in place guarding against another attack by Kate, and an assurance from the doctor that Neal wouldn't wake up before the morning, Peter returned to the hotel. He first checked for any evidence the police might have missed in the hotel room. When he was certain they had done a thorough job, he called Elizabeth with an update.

Like Peter, El was shocked that Neal's girlfriend seemed willing to kill him rather than let him work with the FBI. "What is she hiding?" El asked. Peter didn't know, but planned to put her on a watch list as soon as he returned to New York.

Peter didn't mention Dante to his wife or to Hughes when he reported into the Bureau. He didn't know enough about the guy to include him in a report yet, but his gut was telling him that Dante was in the middle of this. He probably sent Kate to persuade Neal against making a deal with the government. But did Dante know Kate was willing to sacrifice Neal? "Only one way to find out," Peter told himself, picking up Neal's phone to call back the number from last night's conversation.

Dante answered with, "Neal, are you a government drone, or did Kate get through to you?"

"Oh, she got through to him," Peter answered. "She put him in a hospital."

"Suit." There was a pause. "And why should I believe you?"

"It's public record. A Henry Neal Winslow was admitted 2 hours ago." Peter named the hospital. "Respiratory arrest. He's still on oxygen."

"Damn. That mix of chemicals must have been stronger than I thought. I told her to go easy with it."

"When he stopped breathing, she looked me in the eye and told me she was willing to kill him. I don't think she was bluffing. Do you?"

"I'm sure you'll get to the truth when your interrogators use their mind control techniques on her."

"Unfortunately we won't get to do that. Given a choice between chasing after Kate and resuscitating Neal, I chose Neal. She got away."

"You chose to resuscitate someone you believe to be a felon? Interesting."

Peter started to pace the room. He doubted he could keep Dante on the line much longer. He needed to get answers quickly. "You put his life in jeopardy by sending Kate here. Will you back off and let him make his own choices? He's already said he won't provide evidence against his friends."

"And I'm sure he means it. It's you I don't trust."

"Maybe you want to rethink who you trust. Unless you wanted Kate to kill Neal?"

Peter thought he heard birds, maybe pigeons. Where would Dante be with pigeons this time of night? Then Dante said, "If I confirm you're telling the truth, I'll trust you marginally more than I trust Kate. And I'll do my best to keep her away from him in the future. All that romance stuff distracts him and makes him lose his edge anyway. Hmm. Dr. Merritt has a good track record, but she should update her password more often."

"Are you hacking into hospital records?"

"I'd call it _finessing_."

"I'm sure you would," Peter said. "Who is Kate working for?"

No answer from Dante.

"She said **_we_**_ still need him_. I can go after the person pulling her strings, and help keep Neal safe. Obviously they don't have his best interests in mind. Just give me a name."

"You're good at this, Suit. But I can't help you. The name that seems most likely is already on the Feds' wanted list, and you haven't been able to catch him." With that comment, Dante disconnected the call.

AN: Yes, Mozzie/Dante is talking about Vincent Adler. For the purposes of this story, I have Kate collaborating with Adler all along because I needed a villain at this point. If we're talking about the show outside of this story, I find her more of a gray area - not my favorite person but not as bad as I painted her here.


	20. Chapter 20 - Lost Chances

**Chapter 20: Lost Chances **

**St. Louis. Hospital room. Friday morning. Early December, 2003.**

Neal Caffrey had a lot of experience with hospitals. Emergency waiting rooms had a bad reputation, but the non-emergency wings often had lobbies filled with comfortable couches. A runaway teenager or a conman on the run could easily hide out in one of those lobbies for a few hours, and everyone would assume you were waiting for a loved one to get out of surgery.

But for all of his impulsiveness, he took only carefully calculated risks with his safety. It had been years since Neal had woken up as a patient in a hospital room. He accepted the pills a nurse gave him for the headache she knew he would have, and tried to clear the fog that filled his brain. "What happened?" he asked.

"Someone disguised as room service staff drugged you, and you stopped breathing."

Neal knew that voice. "Peter."

Peter Burke stepped closer to the bed. "Hey. You feeling ok?"

"Yeah, I guess. For someone who stopped breathing." Something incongruous caught his eye, and he reached for the left sleeve of Peter's suit. "You have a dry cleaning tag."

"I always forget those." Peter unpinned the red tag that was inside the sleeve. The drycleaner's name included St. Louis.

St. Louis. Roland Villiers. Tiffany exhibit. Peter Burke? Neal sat up, verifying that he wasn't shackled to the bed.

"Take it easy," Peter cautioned, watching Neal as if expecting him to keel over at any moment. "The doctor said you might be dizzy for a while. She also said you might have some memory loss. What's the last thing you remember?"

Seriously? An FBI agent was handing him an excuse to "forget" anything incriminating he'd done recently. That wasn't what he expected from Peter Burke. Neal needed to know what was really going on here. Wherever _here_ was. "What hospital is this?"

Peter told him the name. When Neal groaned, the agent added, "I remembered what you said about the last time you were in a hospital in St. Louis. You're checked in as Henry Neal Winslow."

"I told you about the last time I was here?"

Peter frowned. "You don't remember that conversation?"

Neal shook his head.

"This is not good." Peter pulled up a chair and sat down. "I need you to tell me what you remember since arriving in St. Louis."

"I rented a car."

"Beige Camry, right. Then what?"

"I stopped at a fast food place. Drive thru."

"Fries and a soft drink. Then?"

"How do you know what I ordered?"

"You mentioned it Wednesday night."

"And today is…"

"It's Friday morning. What did you do after going through the drive thru?"

Wednesday night was when the museum heist was scheduled. Did it happen? Did he get caught? Was Peter fishing for information to see if he'd incriminate himself? "Why were we talking Wednesday night?"

Peter clenched his eyes shut for a moment and took a deep breath. "We'll get there. What do you remember after the drive thru?"

Neal wasn't going to endanger Ellen by mentioning the drive through his old neighborhood, and after that things got fuzzy. "Should I ask for an attorney before I answer any more questions?"

"Damn it, this isn't an interrogation." Peter stood up and put his hands on his hips. "I'm trying to help you. I've been trying for the last 36 hours, and I thought… Listen, Neal. Yesterday, the FBI offered you a tentative deal, and you accepted it."

Neal tried not to show his shock, but suspected Peter's intense scrutiny caught the flicker of surprise in his eyes. "I'm listening."

"That deal was offered due to assistance you rendered on Wednesday. In order to finalize the deal, you still need to be interviewed about that assistance and why you offered it. If you can't remember it, then the deal's off the table."

"That doesn't seem fair."

"Fair or not, you can't pass the interview if you don't recall the incidents they'll ask about."

"Actually, I'm very good at interviews."

"I'm not surprised to hear that, but I don't think you can fake your way through this one. Just… Get some rest. Maybe it will come back to you. I'll check on you this afternoon." Peter started to walk out, then turned around. "Here." He pulled an origami swan from his jacket and placed the slightly squashed creature on the bedside table. "You said you made this as a reminder."

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

When Peter returned to the hospital that afternoon, Neal had already checked himself out.

Even worse, Neal must have been watching for Peter to leave the hotel and slipped into the room while he was away. Peter got back to find that all of Neal's things were gone. The front desk said he'd paid for the room including the charge for a late check out, giving Peter time to pack.

The valet confirmed that Neal had taken the Camry. Peter went to the airport, but already knew what to expect. Henry Winslow had returned the car and then taken the shuttle to the main terminal.

Peter sat in the rental company's parking lot, contemplating whether to keep looking for Neal, or to return his own car and catch a flight back home.

His first thought had been that Neal had regained his memory and changed his mind about the deal. How else would he have known the hotel and room where they were staying? But the answer was obviously Dante. Even though Neal didn't have his cell phone in the hospital, he would have found a way to contact his friend. Wednesday night he'd told Dante what hotel they were at, and that they were on the 7th floor. That would have been all he needed to pull this stunt.

Peter had memorized Dante's number, but wasn't surprised the man didn't answer a call from Peter's phone. He called the Bureau, where a clerk confirmed that Dante's number belonged to a burner phone. It was a dead end, and Neal could be anywhere by now. Peter went back to New York, and added Henry Winslow to Neal's lists of aliases, but the St. Louis hotel charge was the last hit they got on that name.

Thinking back to Neal's comments about a fight-or-flight response, Peter added a note to his file: He runs.


	21. Chapter 21 - A New Deal

AN: This is the last chapter, bringing us up to the pilot. There's a little gratuitous off-scene violence for the Hurt/Comfort fans out there, giving you one more scene of Peter coming to the rescue to take care of Neal.

Spoilers for the episode Forging Bonds

**Chapter 21: A New Deal **

**New York. Interrogation room. Friday night. Mid 2005.**

After they arrested him, the FBI didn't jump right into the interrogation about Neal's alleged crimes. They escorted him to a room and left him alone, probably hoping to increase his anxiety. He took the opportunity to consider his approach with Peter.

He realized now shouldn't have run from Peter in St. Louis. There might still have been a chance to convince the Feds to go forward with the deal. But learning he'd almost had immunity only to have it snatched away when he hadn't done anything wrong – the memory loss wasn't his fault – he'd overreacted. It was like a rerun of his reaction to learning about his dad, when he ran away and decided to be a criminal instead of following in his father's footsteps as a cop. Neal had gone on to bigger and bolder crimes, wanting the FBI to regret that they hadn't tried harder to keep him on their side. Now it meant they would try harder to put him away.

Mozzie had been right that morning about the information regarding Kate's location. It had been a trap. But Neal had prepared accordingly. The passports and fake IDs, the pager Ellen had left for him at her church, all of those important or incriminating items were safely hidden away. Neal gave the Feds the address of his apartment, but they weren't going to find any evidence there to use against him. And his willingness to provide the address made him appear at least cooperative, if not innocent.

Before he left to find Kate, Neal had finally asked Mozzie about those lost 36 hours in St. Louis. "That was a long time ago, Neal," Mozzie had said.

"And you have perfect recall. Listen, you said this could be a trap, and that means I may be facing down the FBI later today. I need any edge I can get. Right now they know something about my actions that I don't remember, and they could use it to throw me off my game. Maybe I can turn that against them, if I know more than they think I do."

Mozzie poured a glass of wine, and then launched into the story. "You remember what the job was supposed to be. What we didn't realize was the client who commissioned it had already been arrested. The Feds kept it quiet, in order to catch people he'd implicated, including Roland. It turns out the client bore a resemblance to your favorite Fed, who went to St. Louis claiming to be the client. When you got there, you thought the Suit was in danger."

"Was he?" Neal asked.

"Probably. Roland was more unhinged than I realized. When I called, you said you had led Roland to believe you were a Fed, taking the heat off the Suit. That got you cut out of the action. Honestly, it's surprising Roland didn't kill you. But it means you weren't there when everyone else was arrested with the goods. And next thing I knew, the Suit was arguing that you would be happier, or more _fulfilled_, if you were on their side."

"Wait. You talked to him?"

"Um. Yeah. A couple of times. He was less of a philistine than I expected. The important thing is that he was wrong. And of course if you're arrested I can't help you in any way where he might hear my voice."

"I impersonated a federal agent and Peter didn't arrest me?"

"I think you simply implied you were a federal agent. But what I'm saying is, the Suit was wrong. Sure, you've gotten a little carried away recently. I mean, stealing gems in Burma would be insane. A short break might not be a bad thing."

Neal took away Mozzie's wine glass. "Seriously? How much have you been drinking? You think going to prison would be good for me?"

"Better than switching sides and working for the Feds."

"And you believe I really agreed to that in St. Louis."

"I didn't want to, but I think if anyone could talk you into it, it would be Special Agent Peter Burke. You have to watch yourself around him. There's something about him that you… that you identify with."

"_Identify with_. Right. What were you really going to say?"

"Idolize." Mozzie reclaimed his wine glass. "He's smart, he's talented, he doesn't seem to have any dark secrets we can use against him. He's what you grew up thinking your dad was. What you wanted to grow up to be, before you shed the rose colored glasses and saw the world as it really is."

"No," was all Neal could say.

"Just think about it," Mozzie warned, "in case you find yourself willing to confess because you want his approval."

Neal kept that in mind as Peter questioned him about the forged bonds. It was immediately clear that they had solid evidence he had created and sold the bonds. They'd send him to prison for that. How long depended on how well he could charm the jury.

After a couple of hours, they took a break. Peter refilled Neal's glass of water and made a point of turning off the recording equipment and lie detector.

Neal nodded toward the mirrored window. "How many agents are watching?"

"None at the moment. We're swapping out teams for the next round."

"Your side gets to stay fresh while you wear me down. Doesn't seem fair."

"I can guarantee justice. Fairness is more subjective. The people you stole from -"

"Allegedly stole from," Neal corrected.

"Their idea of fair might not be the same as yours. But in the name of fairness, I'm going to bow out of the rest of the interrogation."

"Why?"

"The bonds were something I investigated before St. Louis. It was after that you started to escalate into the things we'll question you about next. What happened in St. Louis, well, it changes things."

"Would it matter if I remembered what happened there?"

Peter looked intrigued. "Do you?"

"I know a lot of it."

"Not the same thing as remembering. Other people could have filled you in on parts of it, Villiers' arrest is public record, and you could deduce a lot of the remainder from that."

"Peter, what difference does it make? If I know what I did, understand why I did it, and stand by my actions, then the deal could still hold. That's all I needed to pass the interview, right? And the interview was the last step."

"Do you stand by your actions?"

Neal leaned back in his chair, or tried to. The handcuffs attached to a bolt in the table jerked him back. He closed his eyes, almost shaking in frustration, upset with the cuffs, with having walked into a trap, with the lost memories that had changed the course of his life. Then he looked up to see Peter unlocking the cuffs.

"Maybe you can use a break from these," the agent said mildly.

Neal placed his elbows on the table, and briefly rested his head in his hands. A headache was building behind his eyes. No surprise, really. They didn't intend for this to be a pleasant experience for him. He sighed, and sat up straight again. "If someone had asked me that yesterday, I'd have said I must have been temporarily insane in St. Louis. But being here and talking to you again reminds me… Not that I remember, exactly. It just puts me back in the mindset. There aren't many good guys out there, not really. You're one of the few. So, yes, I stand by my actions." He ran his hands through his hair, which had started to hang in front of his eyes. "Why aren't you offering a deal this time?"

Peter didn't answer at first. Finally he said, "The circumstances are different, now."

"I get that."

"Do you? Last time we offered a deal out of gratitude for a service you rendered. We stood to gain your skill set, and to get you off the street."

"And you would gain the same thing now."

"No, now we have enough evidence to get you off the street by other means. We have a lot more victims who want to see justice. The FBI's position, our goals - they've changed."

"The balance of power shifted."

"Something like that, yeah."

"Were you really going to offer me immunity?" Neal asked.

"In St. Louis? Yes, it was a legitimate offer."

"And now you're going to put me in prison for something you already knew about when that offer was on the table."

"That isn't the only charge now."

"But it's the only one you'll interrogate me about, because of something I don't remember doing in St. Louis."

"It's not so much what you did, but what you said. During much of those 36 hours you were running a fever, and overdosed on some strong cold meds. You were… _Impaired_ was the word you used. Nothing of what you told me went into your file, but I can't just erase my memory. I'm not going to jeopardize our case against you by potentially using something that I learned when you were impaired in order to gain a confession now. I may testify at your trial, but I'm turning things over to Agent Hitchum for now."

As Peter stood, Neal asked, "Why don't you even the playing field by reminding me what I said?"

"Because telling you wouldn't even the playing field."

Neal stared after Peter, wondering what he'd told the agent during that lost time.

That question was distracting, but Neal didn't need a lot of brain power to deal with Hitchum. It wasn't merely that Hitchum wasn't the same caliber of agent as Peter. Even though Peter was right about Neal's crimes escalating in seriousness after St. Louis, Neal's skills had also increased. He knew he didn't leave much, if any, evidence. In the next round of interrogation, the Feds did an impressive job of connecting the dots regarding what he had done and when. But in the end, all they had were educated guesses and circumstantial evidence. As compelling as it sounded, they didn't have actual proof, and Neal didn't incriminate himself.

And where he'd been polite with Peter, Neal didn't have as much respect for the next agent. The man got on his nerves, and as exhaustion set in, Neal transitioned from bored to sarcastic to smart ass.

Hitchum wasn't happy.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Early Saturday morning, Peter returned to the Bureau to learn how the interrogation had gone.

He arrived in time to see Hitchum slam Caffrey up against a wall. "Talk, you son of a bitch!" Hitchum demanded.

"Lawyer," Caffrey rasped.

"Yeah, we called your lawyer. He'll get here on Monday." Hitchum loosened his grasp on Caffrey's collar, and watched the man slide down the wall while holding his rib cage. "So let's try this again."

Peter intervened. "What the hell is going on here?"

"Getting a confession."

"More like getting counter charges for brutality. Where's Jones?"

"I'll get him," volunteered a nervous-looking member of the Harvard crew, 3 of whom had been hovering in the hall.

"Hitchum, back off. You!" Peter pointed at another member of the Harvard crew. "Help me get Caffrey back in a chair."

"Not a good idea," Caffrey warned, sounding like he'd been in a desert for the last few hours. He'd looked pale before, but now was looking green.

"You! Trash can. And you! Water." The crew scurried to follow Peter's orders. Thankfully Caffrey didn't throw up, and the water seemed to help. Peter demanded a camera, which arrived at the same time as Jones.

"He doesn't look so good," Jones said.

"Ya think? I need you to take that camera and catalog all of Caffrey's injuries. Determine if he needs first aid or EMTs."

"You're helping his case!" Hitchum protested.

"No, you did that. I'm reminding us of what justice means."

When Peter asked for a summary of what had happened in the last 8 hours, Hitchum and the Harvard crew painted a bleak picture. They had ignored the guidelines for treatment of suspects. They took breaks, got food and water and rest for themselves, while Caffrey got nothing but a continuous stream of questioning. He had requested a lawyer multiple times, and they still kept going. Requests for water had also been ignored.

Only Hitchum had resorted to violence, but the others hadn't tried to stop him. It looked bad for the FBI. Peter knew that Hitchum wanted a promotion and had been looking for a big win, but hadn't expected him to act so desperately.

"I think we need EMTs," Jones said.

"Call them."

"Already did. We've got a black eye, sprained wrist, fractured ribs, a lot of bruises, possibility of a concussion. Can't tell if there are internal injuries."

Caffrey still sat on the floor, leaning against the wall with his eyes closed. His shirt was open, exposing the blossoming colors around his ribs. "I'm willing to forgive all of this and just walk away," he offered.

Peter almost smiled. "Nice try."

"Peter," Jones said. "I swear I had no idea. Hitchum sent me out for food and then had me filing the report on the arrest and all the related the paperwork. I guess I should have checked in."

"Yeah, we'll go over procedures so this doesn't happen again. Send one of the crew out to meet the EMTs. Escort Hitchum to a conference room, and call Hughes. He needs to know what's going on."

Jones grimaced, clearly dreading Hughes' response. "He'll want to talk to you."

"I'll be there as soon as I can." With everyone else gone, Peter sat on the floor next to his battered prisoner. "You look awful."

Caffrey laughed and winced. "He has some anger issues."

"The photos Jones took will go in your file and be available to your attorney. Hey, you didn't egg Hitchum on, to help your case?"

"I'm really not into violence. Anyway, my case doesn't need help. You have no evidence. He knew it, and that's what drove him nuts. He was going to do anything to get a confession, and I'm not confessing to something you can't prove."

Peter heard the EMTs down the hall. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault he - "

"Not about Hitchum. You'll get payback for that in court. I mean for what's going to happen in the hospital. They'll do scans, and they'll find evidence of what happened when you were 9. They'll ask for assurance that the abuse was reported."

Caffrey finally opened his eyes, and turned to stare at Peter. "I've never told anyone about that."

"You told me. In St. Louis."

"While impaired."

"Very impaired, yes. Just tell them it was reported and investigated, and then invoke the privacy laws. That way it won't go into your file, because you do want your medical record made public with regard to your injuries today."

"What else did I tell you?"

Peter wanted to tell him not to worry, but couldn't ignore the fear in Caffrey's eyes. "Your mother gave you food poisoning when you were 6. Your family didn't know about the abuse, probably because the person who should have noticed had a drinking problem. When that person went to rehab, you lived with your aunt. When you were 18 you drowned, skipped out of the hospital, and ended up with pneumonia. Your family doesn't know where you are, and might think you're dead. Under no circumstances should they be contacted or even mentioned in your FBI records."

"You promise?" Neal asked as the EMTs entered the room. They pushed Peter out of their way, but Neal wouldn't let them touch him. "No. Wait. Peter. You have to -"

"You had my word 2 years ago, and it still holds," Peter said, "Now let them do their job, Neal."

He closed his eyes again, and complied with everything the EMTs asked of him.

It reminded Peter of St. Louis, when Dr. Santos was checking up on a frighteningly compliant patient. This was why Peter hadn't led the interrogation. He had an unfair advantage, one that would be illegal to use. He liked to think he wouldn't have resorted to using it, but it would have been tempting to invoke Neal's concern for his family in order to get a confession for crimes where the evidence was a bit sketchy. The kid had almost hyperventilated now at the thought of them being included in his FBI file.

Peter knew they wouldn't meet again until the trial, and wouldn't really talk to each other then. This was the end of the Caffrey Conversation. Peter had failed at reforming Neal, but at least he'd been able to protect his one-time stepson from Hitchum.

**WCWCWCWCWCWCWC**

Four years later, Peter sat at his desk, looking out over the bullpen, but his thoughts were far away. Last night he'd gone through a box of items that had been collected over the years but not used as evidence against Caffrey. Items like the birthday cards sent to Peter from prison. Now, Peter remembered the first time he'd attempted the Caffrey Conversation.

In 2003, it had been about putting a criminal on the road to reform. And he'd almost succeeded. He'd been surprised to gain a stepson in the process, if only temporarily. If things had worked out then, Neal might have become a friend. But after Kate's intervention he'd slipped away, and Peter had to think of him as Caffrey again.

In 2005, he'd finally arrested Caffrey. Before he could send Caffrey to prison, he'd seen a glimpse of the man he'd come to know as Neal in 2003. But it was too late then to re-initiate the Caffrey Conversation. The FBI wouldn't have considered a deal. Offering one would have looked like a pay-off after Hitchum's actions. Instead of reforming Caffrey, Peter had to focus on reforming his own department.

In 2009, Caffrey had escaped from a maximum security prison, with 3 months left in a 4-year sentence. It was no surprise to find Kate was behind that insanity. What did surprise Peter was the discussion that started in the empty apartment where he found the escapee and continued when Peter made his promised visit to the prison. It was as if the Caffrey Conversation had merely been on hold all of this time. But Peter hadn't been ready for it.

Now, they had passed the end of Caffrey's original sentence. And Peter was no closer to catching the Dutchman. He had to admit that it was time for an unconventional approach to bringing this criminal down.

Caffrey had the skills to help with this case. But could they trust him? Which side of Neal Caffrey would the FBI be getting?

Both sides, Peter realized. He couldn't separate the bold criminal Caffrey and the mischievous choirboy Neal who made up Neal Caffrey. Maybe the real question he should ask was whether he could counter with the right mix of Special Agent Burke and stepdad Peter to keep the partnership working. It would be a challenge unlike any Peter had ever faced.

At least this time he understood that the Caffrey Conversation couldn't be a one-time event. It would be a long-term effort to keep Neal on the straight-and-narrow.

It would be worth it, he decided, and requisitioned a tracking anklet.

AN: Thanks for reading!


End file.
